


The Witcher Soldier

by AvoidingAverage



Series: The Winter Soldier AU [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe-The Winter Soldier, And also angst, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassin Jaskier | Dandelion, But with Witchers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Follows plot of Captain America: Winter Soldier, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Getting Together, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier is the Winter Soldier, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Psychological Torture, Stregobor is Alexander Pierce, Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Character Death, That's it, that's the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22837522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: Geralt barely managed to slam the pommel of his sword up in a glancing blow that shattered the metal latch holding the Soldier’s mask in place.  The Soldier rolled into the movement with a dancer’s grace and came to his full height just as easily.  For a moment, his hands reached up to run over the exposed skin, before he slowly turned to face Geralt once more.The Witcher froze in a mixture of horror and near-frantic hope.He stared into the eyes of a dead man and whispered, “Jaskier?”The Soldi--thebardfrowned at him in confusion and spoke with a voice rough with disuse,“Who the hell is Jaskier?”___________________________Or, the Winter Soldier AU.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Winter Soldier AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693594
Comments: 405
Kudos: 2181





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally here...the fic I have been wanting to write since I first fell in love with Feral Jaskier. I am SO SO excited to see what you think. Get ready for ANGST and FEELINGs and BADASSERY.
> 
> Seriously, though. I hope you love this as much as I do.
> 
> Special shoutout to my lovely beta reader, icantloseyou. You're the best. Any mistakes or errors are fully my own.

Jaskier felt the narrow path fall apart in a distant sort of way.

He could feel the chain slipping through his fingers and the pull of gravity dragging him down into the mists. The wind tugged at his clothes and hair with greedy fingers, teasing him with thoughts of flying. He must have made some sort of noise, some cry of horror, because he saw Geralt whirl with an expression Jaskier had only seen once before--panic.

Jaskier’s hands scrabbled at the edge of the cliff face and the guiding chain meant to keep him from precisely this fate. He felt a fingernail catch and tear--the pain meaningless against the terror stealing his breath. His hand caught the loop of the chain and his fall was abruptly halted with a painful jerk of his shoulders as his weight pulled the chain taut.

He sobbed, a confusing mixture of relief and panic making his head spin. His feet dangled in the open air and he could feel the insidious pull of gravity testing the limits of his strength.

Instinctively, his eyes darted up to Geralt--yellow eyes wide and jaw gritted with effort--at the other end of the chain. The witcher seemed to try to summon whatever comfort he could manage. “I’ve got you,” he gritted out with effort.

The path beneath his feet gave a sickening lurch and, from this angle, Jaskier could see how the bolts were beginning to loosen. It wouldn’t be long before the rest of the wood gave way. Judging from Geralt’s expression, the witcher knew it too.

“Geralt,” he began and he wanted to wince at how weak his voice was. Sweat and strain was beginning to force his fingers in a slow slide down the chain. “Geralt, I don’t think it’ll hold.”

The knowledge of his looming death felt strangely anticlimactic after everything he’d experienced. He gave a chuckle with little humor at the idea that he was about to die on a dragon hunt without seeing a  _ single _ dragon.

“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt grunted, “I’m going to pull you up.” 

Jaskier’s eyes drifted over to Yennefer, pale and dark eyed at the witcher’s side. Behind her, Borch and his two bodyguards were tense and quiet, too far away to be of any use. He could see the reality of what was going to happen in their carefully blank expressions. Yennefer made a quick gesture like she was considering trying to pull Geralt back, but caught herself before making contact. She knew better than most how often life chose to rip what you wanted away at any moment. For some reason, the knowledge that she was there with Geralt made some of the fear in him ease. 

The witcher would be fine without him. He would survive this.

The bard glanced over his shoulder at the empty air below him and slid a few more inches down the chain. Geralt hissed out a breath, pulling with his whole weight against the length of chain and Jaskier’s dangling body. The wood gave another groan of protest and Jaskier could see the dust drifting down from the support beams. It wouldn’t be long now before they both fell.

He couldn’t let that happen.

For once in his life he wouldn’t be selfish. He would do the right thing.

Slowly, Jaskier met Geralt’s wide eyes and smiled softly. “I’m sorry, witcher. I don’t think I’ll be writing this song.”

“What...wh-- _ no _ , Jaskier,” Geralt was beginning to look panicked, torn between needing to keep hold of the chain and the urge to reach down and shake the bard until he saw sense, “You’ve just got to hold on. Just--Yen, you have to help.  _ Yen _ !”

She opened her mouth to explain, but Jaskier cut in. He tried to make his voice soothing, hiding his own terror beneath the bone-deep urge to make sure Geralt would be okay. “I knew what I was signing up for the moment I decided to follow you. If you keep holding on to me, we’ll both fall.”

“No! I can save you! I can pull you up!”

Geralt clenched his jaw and his muscles bulged with effort. Jaskier rose a few inches, the movement punctuated with one of the boards connected to the narrow ledge falling free. He had to duck to avoid getting hit in the face with it. It caused Geralt to slide perilously close to the edge and Yennefer made a sound of alarm.

Jaskier swallowed hard and tried to prepare himself to be brave enough to do what needed to be done. He licked his lips and met Geralt’s eyes.

If this would be the last moment he spent on earth with his witcher, then he could at least release this burden.

“I love you.” 

The words felt like they should allow him to fly, but he could already feel his fingers cramping from the effort of holding on.

“I--Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice was rough with something that on a lesser man would be terror, “Don’t do this. Don’t do this to me.”

Jaskier smiled, wishing he could’ve held him one last time. “I love you,” he whispered again over the roar of the wind and his own beating heart, “I’m sorry.”

“No, Jaskier,  _ please _ !” Geralt heaved hard on the chain, but it was too late.

Jaskier was already falling into the white mist.

* * *

He didn’t remember hitting the earth.

He couldn’t describe the crunch of breaking bones or tearing flesh.

All he could remember was the room and the man who replaced his pain with emptiness.

* * *

Jaskier woke stretched out on a table. 

He twisted, panic blooming when he realized his arms and legs were tied down. For a moment, it was all he could do not to thrash violently enough to send blood trickling down his wrists. He could feel panic and anxiety beginning to overwhelm him, so he forced himself to work through a familiar breathing pattern learned at Oxenfurt until he was in control.

The bard opened his eyes a second time and told himself to take stock. 

He could feel the deep ache in his bones that spoke of pain and trauma that his mind was working hard to ignore. His skull felt like it was stuffed with cotton jumbled with his fractured thoughts. Each movement sent delicate shivers of agony skittering over his skin to burrow deep in the muscle and tissue. Caked on blood made him want to itch at the exposed skin, but he also recognized the smooth stretch of linen bandages over most of him. 

Someone had cared for him while he was unconscious. 

Someone who  _ wasn’t _ Geralt. 

Geralt would never have left him to wake alone and chained to a table. Even at his worst, the Witcher seemed to know Jaskier didn’t enjoy being alone when he was helpless. He might grunt and grumble, but he’d never let Jaskier down when he truly needed him. 

_ Don’t do this to me.  _

_ Please, Jaskier.  _

Jaskier closed his burning eyes and tried to refocus. The thought of the witcher’s terrified eyes and frantic pleading made guilt twist deep in his chest. He’d hurt the warrior with his choice to let himself die to save Geralt. Waking up at all was a possibility he’d never considered when he released the chain to fall into the unknown. The fact that he was awake and not nearly as injured as he should be was another mystery. Now, he just needed to survive long enough to make his sacrifice worth something. 

The room was simple with no windows or furniture and only one door. A familiar, iron smell lingered in the stale air, making his lip curl. Blood. He could practically taste the misery etched into every inch of this place. It was cold and dark thanks to only a small, flickering torch set into the wall. The discomfort of the temperature was exacerbated by the fact that someone had stripped off his shirt and pants while he was unconscious, leaving him only in his undergarments and bandages.

The thought of someone touching him while he was helpless made him shudder, so he forced himself to focus on the problem at hand.

A prison cell, his mind supplied quickly, which told him a little more about what he was up against. Regular thugs and thieves couldn’t afford a whole building or room dedicated to tormenting their marks. If they’d wanted his meager supplies, they would have taken it while he was unconscious which meant he was dealing with someone with more connections. And why would thieves bother with a half-dead bard crumpled at the base of a mountain? It just didn’t make sense.

Jaskier was hardly worth the effort of sending soldiers out to kidnap him. He was a bard with a muse who hated him and a list of jilted lovers to avoid. Normally, he would blame said jilted lovers for this experience, but he hadn’t slept with anyone since...well, since he realized he was in love with Geralt. No, it was far more likely that this wasn’t about him at all.

Fuck, he couldn’t seem to catch a break. 

He was forced to stare up at the ceiling for nearly an hour before the door opened. His mind drifted in and out of focus enough that he couldn’t truly be sure how long it had been, but he’d managed to recite a significant number of ballads regardless. It helped distract from his growing fear and the shiver caused by the chill of the room and his state of undress. He tried to summon up an indignant rage for his missing clothes, but it did little to disguise the growing terror.

A small man with a cold expression stepped into the room followed by a stately, well-dressed fellow who walked with an air of confidence that reminded Jaskier of Yennefer. They both ignored Jaskier’s feeble twitching in favor of coming to stand at his head where he had to strain to keep them in sight.

“Is his healing sufficient?” the nobleman asked. 

“It will do for now. No sense wasting energy when we will be breaking him again.”

Well that answered the question of how he was healed. Fucking mages.

Jaskier didn’t like the sound of their last comment or the way they continued to ignore him. He tried to channel as much of Geralt into his voice as he could when he growled, “Not that I don’t enjoy being tied down on occasion, but who the fuck are you?”

The smaller man looked indifferent to his outburst, but the nobleman stepped forward to meet the bard’s eyes for the first time since he’d arrived. 

“Jaskier, is it?” He asked with the self satisfied tone of someone who liked asking questions that he knew the answer to. “You’re the bard responsible for all the ballads about the Butcher of Blaviken.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at the title that made Geralt’s face twist in guilt. “You mean Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.”

And fuck anyone who said otherwise.

“Oh yes, you did come up with that charming title for him, didn’t you? It was rather clever of him to find a bard to seduce into repairing his legacy.”

“That’s not—“ His face flushed at the idea that Geralt would use his feelings against him. He tilted his chin in stubborn refusal to accept that sort of manipulation, “I chose to write the songs myself. The people needed to know the truth.”

The man stepped closer and ran his finger under Jaskier’s chin, tilting it upward until he had to strain to keep from gaining another bruise. The cheerful expression that had been carefully displayed like a mask disappeared in an instant and Jaskier felt his throat go dry. 

“How long do you think he’ll remain this loyal to the witcher, Dagen?” he asked and it took Jaskier a moment to realize that he wasn’t talking to him, but to the other stranger.

“Judging by his mental capacities, I doubt he’ll last long against your magic.”

Jaskier hissed out a furious breath. “Hey, fuck you very much, you insignificant little--”

His tirade was cut out by a vicious backhand to his face that left his vision winking in and out of focus. It took him several long seconds to breathe away the lingering nausea from his upset wounds and by then they'd continued their conversation.

“--sure about the witcher? What about the witch? Surely no one would protest if--”

“I am a mage of Ban Ard,” the nobleman cut in with a scowl, “Even I cannot condone these treatments on one of my own. There are too few of us left after Fringilla’s escapades.”

“Stregobor, we cannot be certain that a human will survive this. It could all be for not,” Dagen complained, looking far too eager at the idea of getting his hands on someone like Yennefer.

Jaskier comforted himself with the idea of what Yennefer would do to the beady eyed little cretin if she were here.

The reminder of his friends was a jagged sort of comfort. Would Geralt search for him? It was likely that they believed him dead, considering how far he’d fallen. Hell,  _ he’d _ expected to be dead by now--not trapped with two strangers who looked at him like he was a piece of meat. 

Would Yennefer and Geralt grieve for a man who’d attached himself to them despite their constant scorn and derision? 

Would Geralt miss him?

A small, vicious part of his mind whispered that they were probably celebrating his demise by fucking out their feelings in their tent. 

Jaskier closed his eyes and forced himself to remember the emotion in Geralt’s eyes as he’d clung to the chain. On anyone else, he would’ve called his expression desolate, desperate. Terrified. Something witchers were never meant to experience, but years of traveling with Geralt had taught Jaskier about how many of those ‘facts’ were actually fables. It helped him gather up the strength he needed to glare into the mage’s eyes.

“Geralt will find me,” he promised, “and he will show you just how he earned the title ‘Butcher of Blaviken.’”

Stregobor’s lips twitched into a mockery of a smile and he stepped close enough that Jaskier could feel the scratch of his brocade doublet. “Didn’t he tell you?  _ I’m _ the one that turned him into a butcher.”

He was still smiling when he leaned over the helpless bard. His hands lingered in the air above Jaskier’s face like he could taste his rising fear and then, gently, closed the distance. Jaskier’s eyes went wide and--

his thoughts

shattered. 

He screamed. Body arching off the table in a violent wave and yanking the restraints taut. His voice rose to a crescendo of violent agony. 

The pain consumed him. Ate away at every thought and phrase that had always leapt to his tongue. Breathing was impossible against the inescapable need to shriek and slam again and again against his restraints. 

It was endless. Ageless. 

Any thought of standing up against tortures as his stories and fables always described in such glorious detail disappeared beneath the weight of Stregobor’s magic. It curled through his limbs like an insidious trail of black sludge, sinking deep until he felt as though he was choking on it. Part of him wondered if it was visible streaming from his eyes and ears. 

Just as abruptly as it began, the pain vanished. 

Jaskier was left shuddering and shivering like a horse after being run to ground. His muscles spasmed helplessly, leaving him in juddering waves. Each thought in his mind felt sluggish and foreign as though it belonged to another. He licked his lips and tried to summon the will to open his eyes.

“What is your name?” the man...Dagen...asked curiously.

He swallowed through a dry throat. Gritted his teeth. “Jaskier. Or would you prefer Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de--”

“It appears the process will take longer than we anticipated,” Dagen said over Jaskier’s response. Instead of appearing annoyed, he seemed...eager. It made Jaskier wary. “Perhaps more power?”

“It would kill him.” Stregobor’s voice was equally unbothered. “He’s already weakened by the fall.”

“We could always get another--”

“I’ve told you before--the witcher doesn’t allow anyone as close as the bard. He has information that we can use to our advantage.”

Jaskier snarled and fought weakly against the ropes. “You’re more foolish than I thought if you think you’ll be able to use me against Geralt.” The rage he felt at the idea of betraying the witcher was enough to overwrite the pain of each movement. “I’ll die before I help you hurt him.”

Stregobor waved a dismissive hand at the bard’s furious noises of protest. “You won’t have a choice.”

Then his hand reached for Jaskier once more, magic humming like the air before a lightning strike.

* * *

Jaskier was a man built of spite and hate.

Once, he imagined himself to be a good person. A simple person, committed to wandering the path and adventures he chased behind. He imagined himself growing to an old age at Geralt’s side, content to take whatever flickers of affection he could gather. A small smirk at a clever turn of phrase. Perhaps a laugh once or twice a year when Jaskier did something especially ridiculous. It would be enough.

Now, he was a shell of that creature of light and laughter. He knew nothing but the blinding pain that forged and reforged his mind each time the mage reached for him. Then there were no thoughts at all--only the same mindless panic of an animal caught in a trap. An endless shrieking wave of  _ hurtshurtshurtspleasestophurtspleasepleaseplease _ .

Then he would open his eyes to find the two men he hated most staring down at him. One would lean in close, breath a warm breeze against clammy skin and ask, “Who are you?”

At first, he relished the chance to prove that they hadn’t broken him. Not yet. Soon, maybe, but not yet.

He was so tired.

He taught and retaught himself the answer to that stupid, useless, painful question each time. It was a promise as well as a comfort when comfort felt ephemeral and impossible in this hellhole.

_ My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz,  _ he would rage and  _ scream _ to his uncaring audience.  _ My friends call me Jaskier. Geralt will find me. _

Then the pain would return.

When it became too difficult to remember the words and images that came with each syllable, his cracked and bleeding lips continued to whisper the promise like it was all that was keeping him together. 

_ I’m Jaskier, _ he pleaded with his own mind to remember.  _ Geralt will find me.  _

“Again.”

“ ‘m Jaskier...Geralt...find me.”

“ _ Again _ .”

Find me. 

_ Geralt _ . 

* * *

The creature opened his eyes and stared up at the plain ceiling. His mind felt blank, quiet as the surface of a pond.

A man moved into view and smiled when he asked, “What is your name?”

The creature remained silent.

“Do you know anyone named Geralt?”

The name caused something deep within him to jerk in the echo of a scream, but the creature ignored it in favor of licking his lips and asking, “Is that my name?”

The man to his right made a pleased sound and spoke to the other. “It appears to have finally worked. We will have to monitor his progress to ensure he does not regress.”

The first man smiled and ran a finger down the creature’s chest. He wasn’t sure why the movement inspired such disgust. “Send down your best trainers, Dagen. I want him to be prepared as quickly as possible.” He met the creature’s eyes briefly, “You are going to do great things for us, soldier.”

The creature--the Soldier--let its eyes close without bothering to listen to the rest of their conversation. “Yes, master.”

* * *

**One Year Later:**

The Soldier stood at attention in the center of the training yard. At his feet, a groaning collection of bruised and broken men twitched in various stages of agony. He ignored them as he ignored everything but the sharp commands of the man at his back. His handler was nervously watching the only other human still standing in the arena.

The man stepped into the Soldier’s line of vision and frowned at him. “What is he doing?”

His handler came closer with a frustrated expression and narrowed his eyes at the Soldier. The Soldier resisted the urge to respond with a wince--he knew it would mean a punishment later. “He’s, um, singing,” his handler answered, “He does it when he is focused on a task. The trainers have tried to beat it out of him or send him back for reconditioning, but it always comes back.”

The well dressed man frowned thoughtfully and his handler rushed to continue, “I could send him back again, if you’d like, sir.”

“No need,” the man said with an air of finality, “We’ll just muzzle him.”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the amazing support! Your comments and kudos blow me away every time. Seriously, you guys rock.
> 
> This chapter was a fun puzzle to sort out which elements of the Winter Soldier could translate into the Witcher universe. Hopefully I do the MCU fandom (Stucky for life!) proud with my rendition of Fury's attack.

Yennefer of Vengerberg was being followed.

The fact itself should have registered as a minor annoyance, or even a foregone conclusion when one considered how often the mage allowed herself to be ‘hunted’ by her own prey. She’d grown used to the men who liked to believe they could control and contain a beautiful creature. It made it even easier to destroy them when she grew bored with their games.

Whoever was following her this time was something else entirely.

Even with her enhanced senses and spells, she couldn’t get a read on whatever beast or creature had kept pace beside her as she walked through the busy streets of Novigrad towards her house. This late at night, there were no crowds to use as a cover for her movements or to keep all but the most violent assassin at bay. It meant if it did come down to an attack, she would be on her own.

The thought of fighting another person was hardly something to inspire terror. After all, she had long ago accepted the blood that stained her hands. Sodden had taught her that destruction would leap eagerly into her hands if she decided to reach for the chaos deep within her. She could handle a single attacker.

No, Yennefer’s unease came from the fact that she was being followed at all.

Her trip to Novigrad was meant to be quick and uneventful. Just get into the city, reconvene with a few of her favorite spies, and get back to Kaer Morhen to be with Ciri. There were rumors stirring in the underbelly of the city. Rumors of old enemies and new weapons that could make things difficult for her newly created family. Such things could not be allowed to continue.

Which was why she was quickly losing her temper at whoever had been tailing her for the last five blocks. She’d taken great pains to ensure her passage into the city was unnoticed--hell, she’d even worn plain clothes instead of her usual flashy outfits. So how the fuck did someone figure out who she was? And who were they working for?

Enemies came to her as easily as breathing which made it next to impossible to narrow it down with a guess. Nilfgaard was always an easy pick, but, with Fringilla gone, it would be years before they could mount another solid offensive. She knew they hadn’t given up the hunt for Ciri though and it was possible that they might attempt more underhanded means to find her. Just as Yenn knew she and Geralt both would burn the world to ash if it meant keeping her safe.

Her follower moved at the corner of her eye and she frowned, turning abruptly away from the main street. She could try to lose them in the familiar back alleyways of the city. Worst case scenario, she wasn’t afraid to use magic to blast the little shit off the earth before she led them back to where Ciri and Geralt were. Ciri might not be hers in blood, but the lost princess was hers nonetheless.

The sound of laughter ahead of her made her pause as she came around the corner of the side street that led to her home. There were five men standing in the middle of the street, clearly waiting for someone. Any question of who disappeared as soon as she came into sight.

“Hel-lo, beautiful,” one of them crooned and shoved excitedly at the man next to him. “Where you headed?”

“Away from you,” she growled.

Only, when she turned to head back the way she’d come from, she found it blocked by another group of men. They smiled with vicious intent, blades flashing with the reflection from the street lights. All men felt immortal when they had friends.

Yennefer scowled at the sight. “Any chance you fools have enough brain cells between you to realize that this is a fight you don’t want to be a part of?”

A large man with a scar that bisected one cheek gave a smile that made her stomach curl in disgust. “Watch your mouth, bitch.”

“Or  _ what _ ?” she hissed, feeling the chaos within her roil like the surface of some great lake.

“Or we’ll find something better for it.”

The mage didn’t bother with a retort, just reached out with a curl of power and yanked hard. The lamp closest to the first group of men came crashing down in a shriek of metal. They cried out with fright, but she didn’t bother to watch their panic. Instead, she ran, cursing her thick skirts with every step.

Aretuza may have taught her the value of power, but Sodden had taught her how easy defeat followed in its wake. She had no intention of making some heroic last stand in the middle of a stinking city against a group of no-name thugs. They might appear to be working together like mercenaries, but she couldn’t be sure who sent them after her unless she managed to capture one of them.

A bowstring twanged somewhere behind her and she rolled awkwardly behind a pile of empty crates. The arrow thunked into the wood where her head would have been a moment before and she bared her teeth at it in a furious hiss.

Fuck this.

Chaos and power gathered around her eagerly as she slowly stood to her full height. It crackled along her fingertips like lightning waiting for a storm. The sensation was as familiar as breathing now, an eager pulse of her blood fighting against the drag of mortality and a life as pig-herder’s daughter. She didn’t fear the burn of madness in her blood just as she no longer cowered in the wake of thunder and lightning.

Now, she  _ was _ the storm.

The mercenaries chasing her had enough time to realize the error of their ways--and  _ oh _ , wasn’t it always a delight to see terror bloom in the eyes of her enemies--before she unleashed herself. Flames flew free from her lips in a bright wave as beautiful and terrifying as any wildfire. She heard the screams rise above the rush of heat and light and smiled. The alleyway crackled merrily in jarring contrast to the sounds of agony.

Such a display drained her even now. Her power reserves had become dangerously unstable after Sodden, but she couldn’t help the thrum of satisfaction when she beheld just what she was capable of. Magic always came at a cost. For now, she was limited in the size and scope of her magic, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before she returned to her usual self. Even if the patience such thoughts required ached like a bruise.

Yennefer felt her limbs begin to tingle with the early warning signs of fatigue and she lowered her arms with a slow sigh. Her attackers had long since been reduced to ash and she could hear the cries of alarm that signaled the town coming awake to the sounds of violence. If the fire was allowed to spread, it could mean the end of Novigrad so she was careful to drag them flames back into submission. They came slowly, sluggish as pouting children denied a toy.

She was panting softly by the time she was satisfied that the danger had passed. Her eyes moved over the area in slow sweet, frowning at the scent of ash and wood oil. It was messy, but a far better alternative than allowing herself to be taken and risking Ciri. Geralt would need to know if there was a new threat as well.

With that in mind, Yennefer slipped down an alleyway in order to avoid the crowd beginning to form and continued on her way. Clearly the rumors were true even without the confirmation of her spies. Some new player was trying to take out Yennefer while she was isolated from Geralt and her defenses. They wanted her vulnerable and alone so they could kill her without difficulty. Which could only mean one thing:

Someone knew she and Geralt had Ciri.

They’d kept the former princess as far away from court as possible. Her hair had been dyed dark brown and she was kept out of sight of travelers and merchants in the tiny, no-name town Geralt had found on one of his countless explorations of the Continent. They owed the Witcher for killing off a griffin of some sort and had offered him the use of one of the small cottages at the edge of the wood. Yennefer had strengthened their security further by adding traps and alarm spells to the perimeter that Geralt prowled regularly. It should have been the perfect place to keep Ciri safe until she was old enough to protect herself.

And yet someone must have realized the lost Lion Cub of Cintra wasn’t truly lost, just hidden with a Witcher and a mage willing to die to protect her. Even with their powers combined, they wouldn’t be able to hold off the attacks from Nilfgaard or any other enterprising groups forever. Which left only one option--they needed to get Ciri out of there. Fast.

Yennefer had walked nearly half a mile before she realized that someone was walking along the road behind her. At first, she dismissed them as another human drunk walking the streets at night, but something about him sent her senses skittering in alarm. She took a right down a less popular street and gritted her teeth when he followed after her. Definitely not a random citizen. 

After the fight just a few minutes earlier, she knew she needed rest and time before she attempted more magic. She might be able to manage a portal, but she couldn’t risk letting someone know where Ciri was. If the man was working with another group of soldiers, she might accidentally lead them right back to her home and heart.

The human kept pace with her easily as she took another right and a quick left down a baker’s back porch that still smelled of cinnamon. Obviously they were well trained enough to stay just at the edge of her vision and senses, but close enough to raise a prickle of alarm with each of their movements. This was no ordinary assassin or Nilfgaardian scout. Her consternation at the follower’s skill and persistence grew when the man actually managed to appear ahead of her, forcing her to double back and take a new route. 

She didn’t realize her mistake until it was too late.

She’d assumed that  _ she _ was the one leading the chase and controlling the venue for their impending confrontation. After all, Yenn had grown used to being the most powerful and intelligent creature in the room. It made her sloppy enough not to realize until she was staring at the walled off exit of the alley that  _ she _ was being herded into a corner.

Yenn whirled in an attempt to backtrack once more, but, for the first time, found herself looking into the face of the man who’d been following her.

Nothing about him explained the prickle of unease running down her spine. He was lean and tall, long limbs graceful even beneath the dark leather armor he wore. Several metal blades gleamed from their places around his body even if none were in his hands yet. She caught a flash of pale skin, but only took these details in at a glance. All her attention seemed fixed on the stranger’s face.

Dark hair curled in loose waves over his forehead to fall to just below his ears. It threw shadows and lines against the black mask that was fixed to the bottom half of his face, obscuring everything from the nose down. It was thick enough that she wondered if he was capable of speech. Maybe it wasn’t necessary with the icy blue eyes that seemed to pulse with uncanny focus.

He carried himself with the easy grace that spoke of someone well trained in martial pursuits and showed no signs of fear at the prospect of facing a mage of her caliber. The observation made her pause. While she knew what she was capable of, she wasn’t stupid. Yennefer of Vengerberg’s name and reputation had become familiar enough that she no longer had the element of surprise to use to her advantage when it came to fights. 

Deciding to test the nature of this new player, Yenn shifted her weight to one leg and gave him a slow smile. It helped show off the curve of her figure and disguise the hand slipping into her pocket to grab her own dagger. “Is there something I can help you with?”

The man tilted his head to the side like a cat studying its prey, but didn’t respond.

“Not much of a talker, are you? If you aren’t here to dazzle me with your wit, then why have you gone to such lengths to bring me here?”

Then the man  _ moved _ .

Any thought of him being a normal human went out the window when he closed the gap between them faster than any mortal should be able to run. She had a hysterical thought that she might be fighting a witcher or one of Geralt’s monsters before her focus was consumed by the need to stay alive. He didn’t bother with weapons--she would have to wait to be offended by that when she  _ wasn’t _ stumbling out of range of a vicious right hook--and moved like quicksilver made flesh. 

The assassin--because what else could he be?--seemed focused on ensuring that she was too busy trying to block the barrage of attacks on her body to summon her magic. It was a test of her ability to focus on anything but trying to escape the onslaught. 

A foot landed heavily against her side and she felt her breath leave her lungs in a painful wheeze. Cursing, she lashed out with the dagger she kept in a hidden sheathe at her side for just such an occasion, but the man leapt out of range. The scent of wood oil and something almost familiar filled her senses. There was magic here too, powerful enough that she began to feel the first stirrings of fear.

Using the distance her attack gave her, Yennefer got to her feet in a clumsy flash of skirts and crouched low with her dagger at her side. The man watched her with eyes that looked far too bright to belong in this place. There was no emotion in his expression from what she could see above the mask. 

His eyes narrowed on her and a low hum rumbled out of his chest a moment before he lunged for her once more.

The jarring sound of his muffled voice as the backdrop to the violence the assassin unleashed on her made Yennefer dizzy. His fist crashed into her cheek and she was forced to dig deep within her reserves to send a burst of power that sent him slamming across the alley into the brick wall. He didn’t make a sound of pain, just slowly got back to his feet and shook his head once like he was dismissing his own discomfort. 

This was no ordinary assassin.

She barely noticed all of this as she grabbed her heavy skirts in one hand and darted out of the dead end street. A dagger clipped her side as she raced, lungs gasping for air, but she didn’t let herself slow. If she was trapped again, she couldn’t be certain that she could end this without injuring herself so badly she wouldn’t be able to portal back to Ciri.

His feet pounded the pavement behind her and Yennefer shoved her hand into the small pack she’d brought along with her. She ducked around another corner blindly and barely missed tripping over a stray cat stretched across the way. It hissed at her, but she ignored it when her fingers finally brushed against the dried edge of a familiar flower.

Feainnewedd.

She’d barely bothered with the stuff after Istredd. Tisseia had taught her faster, more powerful ways to harness chaos into magic and she didn’t enjoy the reminder of her elfen heritage. Or the fragile love that had been destroyed to rebuild herself. 

Now she clutched the tiny flower and shoved it into her mouth with little fanfare. What little distance she’d put between herself and the assassin with her frantic pace was quickly disappearing. Either she called a portal or she would be facing the assassin alone and unprepared.

Centering herself as best she could, Yenn through her hand forward and summoned the image of her tiny cottage to the front of her mind. It was a risk to portal so close to their home, but she couldn’t risk someone reaching it before her. Geralt would hear her approach and know something was wrong. He would protect Ciri until Yennefer could reach her.

The portal flared to life in front of her and she gave a sob of relief when she stepped through and felt the power of it yanking her forward.

Bright moonlight and the scent of fresh meadow grass was a jarring new reality on the other side. Her knees hit the ground hard enough for her to wince and she stayed on her hands and news for a long moment, catching her breath and taking note of her injuries.

Bruises, definitely. There was a throbbing ache on one side of her chest where the assassin had kicked her that might be a cracked rib. The cut along her side was still bleeding sluggishly, but she was relatively certain it would stop once she got it bandaged. There was no burn of poison or curse so she considered it lucky that, whoever the assassin was, he hadn’t managed to do any serious damage. 

Running footsteps heading in her direction had her on her feet in a sluggish movement. Her shoulders slumped in relief when the unmistakable figure of Geralt rushed to close the distance between them. Ciri was nowhere in sight--probably pouting in the house after Geralt ordered her to stay put.

Yellow eyes darted around the clearing in a quick sweep before relaxing minutely--a clear sign that she hadn’t been followed. Yennefer released a breath of relief. She trusted the witcher’s senses more than her own when it came to monstrous enemies.

“What happened?” his voice was flat, any worry he felt hidden far beneath the protective instincts that had only gotten stronger since Jaskier fell.

A part of her wondered what the barding would have made of the strange home they’d built here in the middle of nowhere. Would he have left his adoring fans and crowds behind him to live a life of anonymity with a grouchy witcher, a washed out mage, and an orphaned princess? Her heart knew the truth--Jaskier would have followed Geralt into hell itself if the witcher asked him to.

Not that it mattered anymore.

“Someone is hunting us,” she answered quickly. “They knew I was in Novigrad somehow. Tried to ambush me on the way back to my lodging, but I managed to get rid of most of the mercenaries.”

“So why do you look so frightened?”

Yennefer flinched at the blunt question, but didn’t shy away from the truth. Not when Ciri was on the line.

“I think someone is coming for Ciri. They know we’re protecting her and someone powerful is taking an interest. They sent some kind of assassin--he was, gods, I’ve never seen anything like. He moves like--”

Her description was cut off by a hollow sounding blow to her chest. 

She blinked, surprised at the sensation even as pain crawled up her spine. Geralt spun, sword flashing bright in the moonlight as he sought out the attacker. Yennefer coughed, raw and wet sounding, and raised her trembling fingers to touch the arrow shaft extending out of her chest above her heart.

“ _ Yennefer _ !” Ciri’s voice shouted above the roar in her eyes and she turned violet eyes toward the cottage to watch the princess race to close the distance between them.

The mage falls on weak legs into the meadow grass. Familiar hands reach out to soothe over a clammy brow and put pressure on the wound. She closed her eyes, shutting out the stars and the sight of Ciri’s panic.

“Ciri! See what you can do to heal her--I’ll be right back.”

Then it was just the sound of Yennefer’s rattling breaths, Ciri’s quiet prayers, and the rhythm of Geralt’s racing footsteps away from them.

* * *

Not for the first time, Geralt wished the rumors that he had no emotions were true.

He wished he didn’t know the fear that came with Yennefer falling to her knees. Or the taste of true helpless frustration each time Ciri came awake in the night with a muffled scream and sobbed into her pillows.

He wished he couldn’t feel the gaping, raw wound at the center of his chest that had once been filled with the songs and antics of a bard who’d made the mistake of loving a witcher.

Geralt forced those emotions away with the ease of long practice, knowing the guilt of such a thing would bring back the pain tenfold. It would mean another sleepless night--something he had become more and more familiar with over the last year. For now, such thoughts did nothing but distract from his focus on whatever assassin had managed to get past their defenses and downed Yennefer.

_ Be careful, witcher, _ Jaskier’s voice whispered in his mind.  _ You’re always running headfirst into danger. _

It was a familiar warning. Just as it was familiar to ignore it.

Once, he would have made an effort to keep from limping back into camp covered in gore and riddled with cuts. If only to keep the bard from making that terribly sad sound in the back of his throat. He would have spent every moment away from him planning the path back to the strange peace that came with Jaskier’s constant ramblings and the soft strumming of his lute as he made more and more ridiculous rhymes to tease a laugh out of Geralt.

Now, he ran. He ignored the stitch in his side that came from the unexpected movement. Yennefer’s abrupt arrival and attack hadn’t given him the time to put on his armor or his usual cache of weapons. He would have to make do with the steel sword in his hand.

Ahead of him, he caught a brief flash of movement that he’d barely caught when the arrow had hit Yennefer. Clearly, her assassin was more gifted than she’d expected. Even now the human moved with shocking grace through the trees and game trails that Geralt had wandered nearly every day since they’d arrive. There was little sound to mark his passage and Geralt forced more speed into his limbs to try to close the distance.

From the looks of it, the assassin was heading in the direction of another clearing not far enough away. It would be easier to call another portal in the open space and Geralt had no intention of allowing him that courtesy. Instead, he cut across a path that sent him scrambling across a fallen oak and jumping over a sluggish creek. 

His gambit was rewarded by the first sight of the man breaking through the last line of the trees. Dark clothes blended easily with the shadowed woods and even Geralt’s sharp eyes could barely make out more than a few quick flashes of pale skin. The man was running full out, long legs eating up the distance between himself and the portal he summoned with one outstretched hand.

With a grunt of effort, Geralt sprinted out of the woods to the assassin’s left and hurled his sword across the distance like a makeshift spear.

In a move so sudden and unexpected that even the witcher’s eyes couldn’t quite make it out, the man dropped to his knees in a skid. A gloved hand reached up and snatched the sword out of the air in a graceful maneuver. He used the momentum to roll back up to his feet and whirled to face the witcher with his own sword raised in a silent threat.

For a long moment, their eyes met and Geralt felt something deep in his chest go still.

The man’s eyes narrowed dangerously, expression difficult to interpret behind the  _ muzzle _ that kept everything from his nose down covered. There was something about his eyes that made Geralt take an unsteady step forward. Something familiar and--

Without warning, the assassin shifted his grip on the sword and hurled it through the air towards Geralt’s head. 

The witcher was forced to drop to the ground in order to avoid it. He heard it thunk into the wood where he’d been a moment before and scrambled back to his feet. Geralt started to run forward once more, but stopped mid stride with a curse.

The assassin was gone.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Next chapter will be in Geralt's POV and will discuss his reactions to Jaskier's death. In other words, prepare yourself for ANGST.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for any errors in this chapter--my lovely beta is ill (as was I over the weekend) and I wrote several sections of this on my phone. 
> 
> Hopefully the angst hits you where it hurts still.

Everytime Geralt closed his eyes, a ghost was waiting for him.

The world around him gave way to the craggy cliffs and deadly beauty of the Cairgorn mountains. He felt the cold metal in his hands and the bite of the wind through his leather armor. Each night, Geralt would fight the pull towards the images that haunted him. And each night he found himself looking down at the only person he craved and dreaded seeing.

Jaskier.

As soon as he saw the bard--pale faced and terrified--with his hands wrapped around the chain that wouldn’t save him, the dream would change. Abruptly, Geralt would be shoved back into the moment where all his strength, all his cunning was meaningless against the inevitable pull of gravity. His muscles would burn with the memory of the weight of the long length of chain dangling for yards underneath Jaskier’s body.

He used to tease the bard about how light he was.

It felt like betrayal now.

He could taste the desperation in the air--bitter and cloying, underlined with the sharp scent of fear. He knew the exact moment when Jaskier realized that Geralt wouldn’t save him. The understanding and acceptance crawled through his eyes like a cancer and made his fingers loosen around the chain.

His eyes always fastened on Geralt’s then.

_ I love you, _ he would whisper.

But Geralt was always silent, mouth fused around words that would only make this worse.

Sometimes he begged. Begged for Geralt to be strong enough to save him from this. Begged for Geralt to want him like he’d thought he wanted Yennefer. He pleaded for the Witcher to finally acknowledge the bond that had been growing between them since the boy in Posada had walked over with bread in his pants. 

_ Please, Geralt. _

In others, he wept. Tears would fly away in the wind while he cried for the life he could have lived if he’d never met Geralt. Jaskier’s voice would crack and break with notes of sorrow that were carved into the Witcher’s bones, deeper than any monster’s teeth or claws had ever reached.

_ Don’t let go! _

Sometimes he looked at Geralt with such rage and malice that the Witcher’s body shook under the weight of it. He would watch Jaskier’s lips twist into a sneer that turned his eyes to sharp steel. Like he was daring Geralt to let him fall him one more time. His eyes were dark with the knowledge that Geralt would always fail him in this.

And every time Geralt was forced to watch the moment when the chain went slack and Jaskier’s body disappeared from his sight.

If he was lucky, he’d wake then with tears drying on his cheeks and his jaw aching with how hard he was clenching it. 

Then he wouldn’t be taunted by the memory of seeing Borch transform into a body of golden flames and scales. He wouldn’t remember the singular agony of the moment he understood how horribly he had destroyed the best part of his life.

_ I’m sorry, my friend. I didn’t realize how important he was to you. I couldn’t risk revealing myself when so much was at stake. _

Geralt wanted to be angry with him. His fingers had tightened around the hilt of his blade as he breathed through the mixture of rage and grief that was flooding him. He could feel Yennefer’s eyes on him, her posture as wary as Borch’s and the twins. 

Borch’s face was etched with sorrow, but he did not turn away from the wildness in his eyes.  _ I thought he was merely a follower of yours...an annoyance, at best. I never--I’m sorry, Witcher. _

The Witcher had turned away then, his disgust turned inward and the knowledge of what he’d done sinking like a stone in his gut.

_ Perhaps she’ll be a better companion than you.  _

_ I can see why you chose her.  _

_ Don’t do it, Geralt. Don’t go. _

The memory of Jaskier’s face when he’d chosen to go on the hunt and pursue an unattainable object of lust settled like a poison in his veins. 

It was his fault Jaskier was dead. His and his alone.

* * *

A few days later, Yennefer would leave him to his silent grief and endless travels. Her face was a somber and only a touch of bitterness remained in her eyes when she kissed his forehead and bid him farewell.

He wanted to grieve for the loss of her. Of the love he’d craved since he’d seen her there in the midst of such wild lust.

But, in the end, his feelings for her were just like the other humans she’d bewitched--lust.

It felt thin and middling compared to the aching wound in his chest that could only be filled by a dead man. He found himself avoiding taverns and inns. It was too painful to overhear the sounds of song and laughter and know Jaskier was not there to cause it. The first time he’d heard the ‘Ballad of the White Wolf’ by some no name minstrel, he’d nearly fled from the sound of Jaskier’s words in another’s mouth.

He and Roach stayed on the road, even when their purses were heavy and the winter storms urged him to return to the safety of Kaer Morhen. Vesemir would worry at his absence, but he wasn’t ready to face the too-sharp eyes of his old mentor. Nor would he be able to stomach a lecture on the dangers of becoming attached to a human.

‘Attached’ was far too weak a word for the bond between the Witcher and the man who was once his bard.

They had orbited each other as endlessly as the planets. No matter how often Geralt pushed him away or cut him down with his words, Jaskier would always return to his side. He would face down monsters and beasts with a fearlessness and faith that always left Geralt speechless. Then, Jaskier had managed what so many had failed before--he’d somehow become important to the Witcher. 

He’d joined the very small collection of people who  _ mattered _ to Geralt. Vesemir. Roach. Perhaps even Yennefer given time. 

Without Jaskier, Geralt felt… untethered. 

He wandered away from the coast and found himself, for the first time, considering looking for his child surprise. Jaskier had always been convinced that Geralt wouldn’t truly abandon the girl after Pavetta and Duny were killed. Maybe he’d been right about accepting destiny.

So he found Ciri and told himself that taking care of her might help make the ache of Jaskier’s presence ease somewhat. 

Instead, he found himself surprised to wake up one day and realize that he’d become a part of a strange sort of family. Another gift from a ghost. He had Yennefer at his side once again--a platonic partner to teach Ciri everything she needed to know about her gifts. He had Ciri, brave, strong and stubborn enough to keep him on his toes. He even had a home now in the sleepy village where they’d hunkered down to hide from the worst of their enemies.

It helped turn the raw shards of misery inside him to a dull ache.

But, late at night, when he’d been ripped from sleep from another nightmare, he couldn’t help but think about what Jaskier would think about the life he’d created from the ruins of their love.

* * *

Roach bumped into his side in a subtle reminder that he’d been stumbling on the path by her side. He patted her shoulder in thanks and checked her two riders reflexively.

Yennefer was a dead weight against Ciri, her head rolling back to rest against the smaller woman’s shoulder. Ciri’s eyes were closed and Geralt could tell the long, haphazard journey was beginning to wear on her. Keeping Yennefer upright in the saddle took constant effort and neither of them had been able to rest for the past three days.

Even Geralt was beginning to feel the strain of their brutal pace. He’d taken to walking beside Roach to give her a break and to keep himself from falling asleep when he needed to remain alert. The gelding they kept at the cottage for Yennefer’s use trailed behind Roach on a shortline until they decided to switch mounts again. Yennefer wouldn’t be able to ride alone until her injuries were seen to and Geralt wouldn’t risk her falling out of the saddle until then.

Even a year ago, he wouldn’t have known where to turn to in the wake of such an attack. It was a strange thing to realize that now he had options for a place to lay low until Yennefer was strong enough to protect herself and Ciri.

He could go to Vesemir in Kaer Morhen and hope that the winter snows were enough to keep the assassin or any other attackers at bay. Vesemir would be all too eager for the opportunity to train another youngling after so long and Ciri had been begging to learn how to use one of Geralt’s weapons since he’d met her. The other Witchers might even be convinced to help keep an eye out for those who were still hunting the lost Lion Cub of Cintra.

With Yennefer’s wounds, he couldn’t be sure that she could manage the week long journey without rest and healing. Even now, he could tell her heart rate was slower than it should be and that she struggled to fill her lungs with oxygen.

Which left his second option--Tris Marigold. The mage wasn’t his favorite person to ask a favor from--mages were hardly ever trustworth in his experience--but Tris owed him a favor and Yennefer trusted her. She was only a few days hard ride away from their cottage which was why he was currently plodding along at Roach’s side, blinking away his exhaustion.

“Do you think Tris will be able to fix her?” Ciri asked from Roach’s back. 

Geralt’s eyes softened a little at the worried edge to the princess’ voice. He forgot sometimes just how young she was after all the things she’d already experienced. “It’ll take more than that to bring Yennefer to her knees.”

It was a new thing to be comforting to another. Jaskier had taught him the value of such things.

He wondered how long it would be before the thought of his bard didn’t cause a bolt of agony in his soul.

Yennefer’s voice was a welcome distraction. “...you should know,” she muttered.

Geralt smiled and clicked his tongue to Roach to get them moving a little faster.

* * *

“Just  _ once _ I’d like for you to come visit for something other than near death experiences,” Tris said as they hobbled through the entrance to her suite of rooms in Foltest’s castle. 

“That would be boring,” Yennefer huffed, looking pale and drawn with Geralt and Ciri supporting her on either side. The ride had stripped most of her strength, but she’d looked ready to flay them alive if they tried to carry her in ‘like a damn maiden.’

“What happened?”

“She was attacked--some sort of assassin followed her back from Novigrad,” Geralt answered as he settled the mage onto the bed Tris had vacated at their knock.

She huffed painfully and Tris made a disparaging sound when she began to look at the bandages disguising the arrow wound. “He wasn’t just some assassin. He was enhanced somehow,” she grumbled, “ _ and _ had a mage to portal him back to the cottage.”

Geralt thought of the inhuman way the man had run through the woods, prompting him to think he was watching another Witcher. He grunted in assent.

Tris frowned at them. “Who would want to kill Yennefer?”

She carefully didn’t mention the former princess hovering nearby.

_ Who wouldn’t _ ? Jaskier’s ghost muttered in his mind and he bit back a smile by fidgeting with his glove. 

The healer pressed a poultice to Yennefer’s chest that made her suck in a breath and go a little green. Yenn bit her lip and glared up at the ceiling like she could force the pain away through sheer will. “It was Stregobor’s doing.”

Geralt stood a little straighter. “Stregobor? Did you see him?”

“No, but-“ Another wince and then she met Geralt’s eyes, “-the assassin stunk of his magic. He’s the only one who would dare to break the old laws so openly.”

He carefully didn’t think of Blaviken and Renfri’s furious eyes. 

“Why send an assassin then if you could tell it was his work? Why even bother disguising the human, for that matter?”

Tris looked intrigued by the question. “Your assassin was masked?”

“Muzzled like a rabid dog,” Yennefer confirmed. 

“I’ve heard rumors of such a human,” Tris said after a thoughtful silence. “He was the one that crippled the Oren clan.”

Yenn twisted to stare at the other mage in surprise. “I thought that was the work of a rival gang.”

Tris shook her head. “I treated one of the soldiers who was sent to clean up the mess left behind. Said it was a bloodbath.”

“So how’d they know it was this assassin?” Geralt asked. 

“Servant saw him enter the hall where the clan leaders were meeting, humming a tune as he walked. Then the screams began.”

“How many killed?”

“Fifteen, if the rumors are to be believed.”

Geralt scoffed. “Impossible. No human could single handedly take on that many and live.”

Tris’ expression was grim. “He’s not a human. Not anymore.”

There was a beat of silence where they considered the implications of Stregobor’s sudden interest. 

Ciri stared at Geralt, guilt and a tired sort of fear marring the blue of her eyes. She was growing far too used to the fear of a hunted thing. It showed in the deepening frown lines and the way she didn’t seem shocked to discover yet another man was willing to kill to control her. It made him want to roar in fury. 

Instead, he turned back to Tris and Yennefer. “Get her healed as quickly as you can, Tris. We don’t need to bring death to your doorstep,” he said quickly and looked at Yenn. “Once you’re safe to travel, portal to Kaer Morhen. The paths will be snowed in for the season and Vesemir will let you stay until then.”

“And where will you be during all of this?” Yennefer asked. 

Geralt moved toward the door, mentally cataloguing his weapons and gear. He stopped to give her a feral grin. 

“I’m going to hunt a monster.”

* * *

The blow snapped his head to the side and he could taste blood seeping into his mouth from the cut on his lip.

His handler’s lip curled in disgust at the blank expression on the Soldier’s face. He was the type to enjoy seeing pain in others the Soldier had discovered over the last month. Just as the Soldier had discovered that he took some sort of perverse pleasure in keeping him from seeing the way his jaw was already beginning to ache.

Such thoughts would get him nothing but another punishment. 

Or worse, a trip to the Chair and the mage’s cruel smiles.

So he remained still and silent as his handler slammed his fist into his stomach once more, causing him to cough roughly before returning to his ready stance. Ever the perfect soldier for his masters. Even if the thought made something in him burn with something that tasted like anger.

“You were supposed to  _ kill _ the mage!” his handler hissed, eyes snapping cold fire. “Instead, you let the Witcher save her and now we don’t know where the girl is.”

He didn’t respond--not that they expected it from him with the mask attached to his face. 

The mention of the Witcher made something fragile and hidden deep in his chest scream a name that tasted like salvation on his tongue. He closed his eyes.

The handler made a disgusted sound, growling through his teeth. He reached out, closing his fingers like a vice around the Soldier’s throat. It was a test of will and training not to react. Not to lash out and unleash the violence simmering in his blood. His head pounded and he could feel his vision spotted dangerously at the edges.

“Next time, I won’t portal you out of there, freak,” he hissed, fingernails digging in to break the skin at his neck. “You will go and you will hunt them down and  _ bring me the girl _ .”

The Soldier nodded stiffly, eager and terrified to return to the white-haired Witcher.

His handler’s smile was cruel. “Don’t forget who you belong to.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter--the reveal!
> 
> #imexcitedtoo


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Liiiiiiiiiiive.
> 
> Seriously, though, sorry this took so long. Thanks for being patient.

It took four days before Geralt could reach Novigrad and begin his hunt.

Despite his need to rip apart the threat to his family, experience taught him it would be best to rest and prepare himself for the challenge of taking on Stregobor and the assassin who followed him. He filled his potions along the way, grateful that Tris had refilled most of his ingredients. As much as he  loved enjoyed being with Ciri, he missed the familiar rhythm of traveling the Path and the battles that came with it. 

He carefully did not think about how the silence left in Jaskier’s weight ached like a bruise.

It had taken months before he could break the habit of turning to comment on something on the road to the man no longer following in Roach’s wake. He still found himself hauling more firewood than he needed because of the urge to keep Jaskier warm when the nights grew colder. His fingers reached out each night as he slept for a familiar body curled up nearby, only to wake to cold earth and a broken heart.

_ I love you _ , Jaskier’s ghost haunted him with the phrase.  _ I’m sorry. _

Geralt wondered if he would still feel the same after having Geralt fail him so spectacularly. He couldn’t even avenge him--how could he fight gravity and the weakness of his own limbs? All he could do was grieve and try to breathe past the regret that was choking him.

It was the greatest irony of all that Geralt would discover his feelings for the bard after he’d watched him disappear into the mists of the valley below. (Some nights, he was painfully grateful that there  _ had _ been mists to keep him from seeing the moment Jaskier’s body was broken against the sharp rocks below. Others, he hated the fact that his last memory of his bard was so short.) Seeing Yennefer after--remembering the lust he’d once felt for her--felt as fragile and unattainable as smoke.

Whatever bond that had formed with the djinn was nothing compared to the connection forged by years of travel and struggle with Jaskier at his side.

Not that it mattered now.

_ Focus, Witcher _ , Jaskier’s voice said from a mixture of memory and desperate longing,  _ you can’t be daydreaming when Ciri needs you. _

The reminder of how well he imagined Jaskier would fit in with his new, odd little family was a twisting knife in his chest, but he did as he was told and focused on the world around him.

Novigrad was just as he remembered it. The thatched roofed buildings were huddled together like birds in a storm, all sharp edges and overlapping angles. A few cheerful pockets of color came from a few ragged flags mounted on the outer walls and along clotheslines draped between balconies. He could hear the rumble of the ever present crowds that roamed the city even as the sun settled beneath the horizon.

Roach’s ears flicked back and forth as they moved from the red dirt road onto the cobblestones of the city streets. He could feel his own tension translating into her subtle wariness. They’d worked together long enough that the mare was attuned to his subtle mood changes and responded accordingly.  ~~ Just like Jaskier. ~~ He patted her side once in silent reassurance.

Yennefer’s description of the attack--brief as it was--gave him little more than a direction to begin his search with. She’d told him the address of the house she’d kept in the city which was only a few blocks away from the ambush. He nudged Roach in that direction and kept his eyes focused on the city around them. 

The back of his neck itched with the knowledge that he was being watched. The trick was trying to differentiate between the curious stares of the townspeople from the glare of someone hoping to end his run of monster hunting.

Now, with Ciri vulnerable and Yennefer injured, he couldn’t afford to be wrong.

So, he let his fingers play over the knife at his side and mentally tracked where each of his weapons were located. Then he inventoried his potions. By the time he’d begun to recite subspecies of drowners, Geralt caught sight of the basket of purple flowers on a second floor window box. He slid off Roach’s back gratefully and patted her shoulder.

The Witcher led the mare over to the side stable, senses still screaming at him that someone or  _ something _ was trailing him. He forced himself to keep his hands steady while he pulled off her saddle and tack and placed them on the hooks along the walls. She went into the box stall eagerly and sniffed at the thick layer of hay on the ground. Yennefer’s stablehand clearly knew of Geralt’s protectiveness toward his horse and he was grateful for the reminder that she would be well taken care of if this job took more time.

Roach walked over to where he leaned against the stall wall and lipped at his hair. A flash of sadness traced over his features when she sniffed hopefully at the pocket on his chest. It was a habit created from how many times Jaskier had left sugar cubes for her there for Geralt to use as bribes when the mare complained about hauling whatever disgusting corpse he brought back with him.

“I miss him too,” he whispered to her and she went still, sensing the somber shift in his mood.

He tried not to think of the way the mare had fought him with each step away from the mountain, constantly turning back to look for the missing member of their herd.

After a few minutes of running his fingers through the coarse strands of Roach’s hair, Geralt turned away with a deep breath. The feelings of grief and regret were familiar now--as much a part of him as the scars littering his body. He pulled the barn doors shut behind him and stepped out onto the street.

There wasn’t much of a trail to track to uncover the monsters responsible for Yennefer’s attack so he didn’t bother. He had the name of Yennefer’s spies and assumed it would be easiest to rendezvous with one of them for the information that had triggered the attack on the mage. A thick cloak kept his sword and weapons mostly out of sight from the last of the people walking back to their homes.

At this time of night, it would be an effort to blend in with the thinning crowds. At best, he could hope that they assumed he was just another soldier or warrior going home for the night. People noticed predators in their midst--even if they didn’t know why they shied away. It made it more difficult for him to avoid drawing attention on the rare occasions where he cared about maintaining a low profile.

Which is why he noticed when he was joined by a growing group of people. 

At first, it was just two drunks stinking of booze and bad decisions stumbling along beside him, looking as though they were heading toward the next pub. He noted the blades at their waists and dismissed them with a disgusted crinkle of his nose. They had reached one of the bridges connecting the city to the island within and it was reasonable to assume he would run into others looking to make their way home for the night.

Then it was three merchants, talking amongst themselves about the day’s sales. Their voices carried easily over the far-off sound of the river moving below the wooden boards under their feet. They regarded him with a little more curiosity than the drunkards, but he couldn’t tell for sure if they were armed beneath the layers of their clothes. He could feel their eyes lingering, but years of being spurned by other humans made that a familiar sensation.

It was the group of soldiers who did it. He could smell blood lingering beneath their neat uniforms--too baggy to belong to them honestly. They chattered comfortably to one another as they fell into line behind him. He glanced at the clock mounted on a nearby watchtower and felt his stomach sink with understanding--it was far too early for shift change. And yet here were four city guards walking comfortably through the streets without any worry or care about what their superiors would think.

Geralt watched the men moving around him with a slowly mounting suspicion. He was surrounded now and that could only mean one thing.

“Before we get started,” Geralt said, “does anyone want to get out?”

There was a pause before--

A knife moved through the air toward him and he ducked beneath it, coming up in time to catch the kick aimed for his head with his forearms. He grunted at the dull throb of agony, but used the movement to yank the man off balance and into one of the guards to his left. Another mercenary disguised as a vendor rushed him with a roar that was cut off with a yelp when Geralt met him with a quickly cast Aard.

He turned in time to see a cluster of three men working to circle him. A chain of mottled silver dangled between one of the men’s hands and stank of enough dark magic that Geralt eyed it warily. Clearly his attackers were prepared to do what needed to be done to bring down a Witcher.

Not that he intended to make it easy for them.

They rushed him and he snarled when they used their numbers to their advantage against him. His left arm went down beneath the weight of one while he focused on gutting the man to his right. Cold metal clicked into place around his wrist and Geralt gritted his teeth against the sudden drain to his strength. The soldiers pressed their advantage like they’d anticipated this and he only barely managed to yank his other arm free before he was fully restrained.

His foot came up in a front kick that sent another soldier flying off the edge of the bridge. The metal chain and dangling cuff was an awkward weight at this side that made for a decent bludgeon against another one of the soldiers. Down the street, he could hear shouts and cries from a mixture of civilians and guards that made him grit his teeth. He couldn’t risk more of these undercover soldiers arriving on the scene or the city guard to step in to help what looked like their own comrades. Stregobor had chosen his attack and location carefully.

It left him with few options that didn’t end with another tainted narrative like in Blaviken or rotting in a ditch somewhere.

Another Aard sent two of the men onto their backs and gave Geralt the space he needed to turn and look for an exit. The bridge was high enough above the water that no human would dare jump into the churning waters below.

But Geralt was no human.

He didn’t bother to respond to the shouts of the soldiers coming closer, just took a running start and dove into the empty air towards the waters below.

* * *

Hours later, Geralt hauled himself off the muddy bank and grunted in disgust. His gear was thoroughly waterlogged and covered in a mixture of silt and sand from the river. One of his favorite knives was missing and he was sure that more than one of his potions was rolling along the muddy bottom as well.

By the time he’d backtracked to the city, the morning sunlight was trickling weakly in through the trees lining the path and his clothes were mostly dry. His skin was chafing in a number of uncomfortable areas, but he could at least begin the process of warming himself up. The simmering heat of his rage at Stregobor’s games had been enough to get him through the night. It made his jaw ache with tension and his fingers grip themselves into fists at his sides. He’d long since broken the chain free from his wrists and tied it carefully to his side--he fully intended to use it again when he choked the life out of the mage.

The attack came from nowhere.

One moment he was walking along, smelling river water and the familiar scent of the cedar trees around him, the next he was slamming into the ground with the weight of his attacker on his back.

He cast Aard by reflex and was rewarded with the sight of the black clothed assassin flying high above the road to land twenty feet or so away. The attack forced off the goggles set above the muzzle affixed to his face revealing bright blue eyes. Geralt had a moment to marvel at the dichotomy of having such beautiful eyes on the face of a killer before the man was throwing a vial at the Witcher and the world burst into white flames around him.

He cursed, rolling out of range of the worst of the heat and batted at the tiny flames clinging to him. Ironically, the river water probably saved him from the worst of the damage. The Witcher let the momentum of the dodge get him to his feet in time to watch the Soldier came out of the flames with another vial in his hand.

Geralt sprinted to close the gap, bringing up his leg in a quick kick that sent the next potion out into the trees in a burst of light. The assassin didn’t seem phased, just flipped a knife free of the sheathe on his hip in a slick move and rushed Geralt once more. The Witcher caught his arm awkwardly and found himself being forced back with a strength that no human should possess.

They grappled with little form, shoving each other bodily back and forth. Geralt felt his back slam against the rough bark of a tree and the knife went deep into the wood beside his head. For a moment they were face to face, before the assassin’s arms tensed and Geralt watched the blade drag across the bark in an effort to slit his throat.

He cursed, shoving hard enough that the enhanced human stumbled backwards and used the opportunity to draw his steel sword. Geralt swung it in a wicked arc that was met with a burst of sparks and two of the assassin’s long knives. For a moment, the memory of Renfri’s furious face left him stunned before he blinked and suddenly all he could think about was keeping those blades from gutting him.

They moved across the forest floor in a deadly dance that had Geralt digging deep for speed and stamina that he’d never needed in any fight against a human foe before. 

The assassin was like no enemy he’d ever seen. Even monsters and beasts worked hard to keep themselves from receiving any injury that would keep them from being able to hunt or protect their territory. This human--bastardized magic or not, Geralt could  _ smell _ the humanity clinging to him--moved with absolutely no regard for his own survival. He didn’t react to the punch that should have rattled the teeth in his skull with more than a sharp exhalation. He threw himself against each of Geralt’s attacks like a rabid animal. 

The muzzle across his face helped add to the inhuman nature of the Soldier’s attacks. It muffled all sound from the man, even if Geralt’s sensitive ears occasionally caught something akin to a hum coming from his throat. His eyes--still far too pretty for someone guilty of murdering dozens--were focused and sharp above the mask. They never strayed to Geralt’s face except to aim his next attack more effectively.

In any other situation, Geralt might have enjoyed the rare chance to fully unleash himself against an opponent. It was a rare thing outside of Kaer Morhen and he’d craved the release of energy that nearly always guaranteed a few hours of sleep with Jaskier’s memory to keep him company. 

Now, he found himself digging deep into the wells of his energy for the speed he needed to outmaneuver the two knives used with deadly efficiency against him. He reversed the grip on his sword and blocked a quick attack aimed at his gut at the cost of a long line of pain down his sword arm. Cursing, he looked up in time to catch a handful of ash in his eyes. It made the world go blurry and the man before him took advantage of the distraction to move in for the kill. 

Geralt barely managed to slam the pommel of his sword up in a glancing blow that shattered the metal latch holding the Soldier’s mask in place. The Soldier rolled into the movement with a dancer’s grace and came to his full height just as easily. For a moment, his hands reached up to run over the exposed skin, before he slowly turned to face Geralt once more.

The Witcher froze in a mixture of horror and near-frantic hope.

He stared into the eyes of a dead man and whispered, “Jaskier?”

The Soldi--the  _ bard  _ frown at him in confusion and spoke with a voice rough with disuse,

“Who the hell is Jaskier?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will bring the angst. Prepare your hearts.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie--this chapter hurts. Ride on, my angsty friends.
> 
> If you want even more drama, I highly recommend reading the section from Jaskier's POV while listening to "The Horror and the Wild" by The Amazing Devil. It's where I got the song lyrics and easily my favorite song from their albums. 
> 
> ALSO:  
> Check out this amazing artwork by seijishun on tumblr!! I am blown away!

<https://66.media.tumblr.com/3ffe42ed6c59fe117cfd0e04c9a34326/6548f8e118c4e9ec-4d/s1280x1920/4f5cf480ab75d115771b99afaca7191811c851db.jpg>

The world narrowed to an impossible point.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said again, his voice raw with disbelief and painful hope.

The man across from him watched him without any recognition softening his expression. Instead, he was wary, clearly waiting for another attack.

Geralt stared at him, trying to breathe past the panic and confusion choking him. His mind felt like a hollow space where a single thought was ricocheting around wildly.  _ This was impossible.  _ Jaskier was dead.

He’d  _ seen _ him fall.

He’d heard his body hit the rocks below with a sickening crunch that no human could have survived. Listened to Yennefer’s soft exhalation of horror. He’d felt the chain go loose in his hands and the pull of unfamiliar hands dragging him away from the edge. He’d grieved. Regretted. Become bitter.

And yet, here they were.

Geralt took a step towards Jaskier, hands twitching at his side with the urge to wrap himself around the bard and never let go. As much as his mind was shouting that this was impossible, all of his senses confirmed that the figure before him was the man he’d lost so long ago. A part of him wondered if he should be angry that Jaskier has been alive while Geralt was haunted by the memory of him, but it’s a faint voice beneath the tidal wave of reliefjoyhopeloveconfusion.

It was clear Jaskier felt none of the relief at the sight of Geralt. He was still cradling his side where Geralt had slammed his fist full force into him and watching the Witcher like he was waiting for the next attack. His eyes bored into Geralt’s searching for something the Witcher wasn’t sure he understood. There was a slash across his cheek bleeding sluggishly and his eyes held the same shadows of someone who knew not to trust the predators in their midst.

Gods, he’d been trying to  _ kill Jaskier _ . 

“Jas--” Geralt began as he took a step closer, trying not to flinch at the way Jaskier’s eyes dropped to track the movement.

“Soldier!” the voice made both of them jump and whatever life had been in Jaskier’s eyes disappeared under a painfully blank mask. 

It was such an unnatural thing, Geralt felt his own mind stutter to a halt even as he forced his nerveless fingers to close once more against the hilt of his sword. Whoever taught Jaskier to look that way needed to die. Slowly and as painfully as possible.

A man wearing heavy leather armor stepped out of the trees, his expression imperious. His dark eyes remained fixed on the Witcher even as Jaskier crept to his side like a kicked dog. Geralt bared his teeth in a vicious snarl.

“Let him go.”

A smarter man would have recognized his own death waiting in Geralt’s palm, but the stranger only sneered at him. He gestured to Jaskier and Geralt gaped in horror when the bard went to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut. The man raked his fingers through the bard’s long hair and patted him. “Why would I let my dear little Soldier go?” he crooned down at Jaskier who remained silent, “I’d miss him so.”

“Whatever you’ve done to him, whatever spell--”

“Oh, we didn’t need the spells for long, did we Soldier?” the man said with a glint in his eyes that made Geralt’s stomach twist in dismay. “It only took a few weeks before he stopped fighting us. He hasn’t fought back for so long...I almost miss it.”

His fingers tightened in Jaskier’s hair until it must have begun to hurt, but Jaskier remained blank and empty.

Geralt’s furious step forward was halted when the stranger pulled a knife free from the sheath on Jaskier’s chest and pressed it almost casually against his bared throat. Geralt stared at Jaskier, begging,  _ pleading _ with him to fight this, to show some sign of the man who’d once inhabited his body. 

* * *

_ “Oh, now I understand. Yellow eyes. White hair. Two scary swords. I know who you are--you’re the Witcher,” the smile leveled at him was all mischief and foolhardy bravery, “You’re Geralt of Riva.” _

* * *

_ The crackle of a fire in one of countless campfires and nights spent under the stars. “I’m glad I followed you, you know.” _

_ Silence. _

_ A quick smile that seemed far too fond. “I know you’re glad I came along too.” _

* * *

_ “Let’s just leave the sexy, but insane witch to her demise!” _

* * *

_ “I’m not your friend.” _

_ “Oh. Oh, really? You usually let strangers rub chamomile all over your lovely bottom?” _

* * *

_ “Come on. You must want something for yourself once all this monster hunting business is over with.” _

* * *

_ “I love you.” _

_ “I’m sorry.” _

* * *

Geralt waited with his heart in his throat for some flicker of recognition or sign that whatever Stregobor had broken in Jaskier could be fixed. He ignored the sounds of footsteps approaching and the triumph in the other man’s eyes to watch the face he’d thought he’d always know.

And, for the first time since they’d begun to travel together, Jaskier disappointed him.

He didn’t react to the guards and soldiers that stepped out of the trees to surround Geralt and force him to his knees. He didn’t cry out when one of them cuffed him brutally against his jaw when he tried to jerk away from the magical restraints they snapped close around his wrists. He didn’t even blink when the soldiers pulled him to his feet and began to drag him away to the waiting prison cart.

It felt like if he looked closely he would be able to see the glittering shards of his heart like a trail behind him.

* * *

  
  


The Soldier was restless, fighting against an urge he didn’t understand to push back against the hands that shoved him along the path at his handler’s side. He wanted to go back to the man who’d been chained and dragged into the cart. He wanted to ask why he’d looked so heartbroken at the sight of his face.

He’d  _ wanted-- _

“Good work, Soldier,” his handler said beside him, oblivious to the internal war inside the assassin, “Stregobor will be pleased.”

The Soldier knew better than to think that his handler expected a response or that Stregobor’s pleasure would mean anything to his own treatment. The best he could hope for was that they might choose not to bring him back to the mage’s table or allow him to keep the muzzle off his face for a little longer. 

He took a deep breath of fresh autumn air, sharp with the scent of cedar and drying leaves. He found himself wondering how the Witcher might smell. Leather, perhaps. There’d been blood stains on the old armor, but he imagined the scent would be warm and comforting even with the bitter undertones. Just as quickly he banished the useless ache in his chest for a man he didn’t know.

Such thoughts would only lead to more punishment.

When they turned away from the street in the direction of Stregobor’s manor house, the Soldier balked when he saw that the prison cart was being taken in a different direction. He stopped, turning to watch its path even as the soldiers moving around him stared at him with varying degrees of confusion and alarm.

“Soldier!” his handler’s voice was sharp and the Soldier’s lips pursed in a rare display of irritation. 

He looked back and stared at the imperious human. 

It would be a simple thing, he decided, to reach out and snap the fragile bones in his neck. He could probably manage it before the other soldiers even realized what had happened. The man--Verric? Valdo?--glared at him and the Soldier wondered if perhaps breaking his neck would be too simple for the person responsible for more than half of the scars littering his body. All he would need to do was incapacitate the other warriors so he could take his time--

“Soldier.” This time the man’s voice was slightly less certain and the Soldier wanted to revel in the fear lurking in his eyes.

It felt like a victory.

A few of the soldiers moved closer and he heard the sound of their weapons being drawn. His skin crawled with the feeling of their eyes on him and the pain each second of silence promised to bring. Images of the table, of the screams carved into each layer of his flesh, flickered behind his eyes and he faltered. Something deep within him knew it was useless to fight against the mage’s pull.

So he silently moved forward, carefully ignoring the way his handler edged slightly away from him or the uneasy stares of his guards. 

They moved down one of the side paths that skirted around the edges of the manor’s grounds. Here the thick hedges disguised the movements of soldiers and servants of the mage from curious eyes of the city. If it mattered, the Soldier could tell you that there was enough overlap between the city guards and Stregobor’s people that he could take over the city easily. The fact that he had not meant that he had bigger goals here. Ones that involved the yellow-eyed Witcher.

His handler pulled him by his arm into one of the passageways that the Soldier instinctively wanted to run far, far away from. His memories were as useless to him as a sword against smoke but he trusted what his body told him. The underground tunnels were where terrible things happened. He needed to stay away from them as much as possible. 

The Soldier shifted, looking back towards the exit until he was clipped on the side of his head with the pommel of one of the guard’s blades for his trouble. 

“Keep moving,” he sneered.

For a moment, the Soldier considered doing just that, but then he remembered the desperate emotion in the Witcher’s face and something deep inside him fractured.

He reached out quickly and wrapped his hand around the hilt of the sword used to hit him and yanked with all of the unnatural strength that made him feel like a monster. The man had barely an instant to look surprised before the Soldier slipped inside of his guard and brought the palm of his free up to slam into the bridge of the man’s nose. Shouts of alarm layered over the scream of agony from his victim and echoed in the narrow space.

Humming a jaunty tune under his breath, the Soldier let the guard fall to the ground in a heap and reversed his grip on the sword so it ran along the flat of his forearm as a makeshift shield. The guard to his right rushed forward and he batted him aside almost casually. All of his confusion and irritation from the interaction with the Witcher disappeared under the comfortable numbness of the creature he’d become.

His voice was gravel and ice over snow as he gutted a man. “Remember me I ask. Remember me I sing--” The next soldier had enough time to stare at him in horror before the Soldier’s hands were at his throat, all without losing the tune of the song he crafted with each drop of blood, “--Give me back my heart you wingless thing.”

His fingers itched for something far more fragile than the blade he pulled free from another’s belt, but bones and flesh would have to do. 

They fell around him, seemingly endless despite the number of bodies that joined the growing pile around him. He didn’t bother to run. He knew how this struggle would end. Somewhere deep in his bones was resonating with the memories of pain and punishment, but he couldn’t resist the lure of the memory lingering just outside of his reach. Memories of a man, of destiny, of Ger--

_ “Soldier _ !”

The voice snapped through him with all the devastation of a hurricane’s wake. He was left panting, standing alone in the center of the destroyed corridor, and staring down at the hands that went limp and placid at his sides. Deep within him, he could feel the heat of the anger that seemed to never leave him roar behind the wall that the mage’s poison had erected.

Trembling like a horse after a race, the Soldier turned hate-filled eyes toward the mage and the doctor responsible for every missing space in his mind.

“He’s unstable,” the doctor muttered, “Erratic. We should not have sent him out.”

Stregobor’s eyes narrowed dangerously, taking in the state of the Soldier and the cost of his loss of control. “Soldier,” he said again, using the name like a tether, “prepare yourself for maintenance.”

Abruptly the fury that had kept him upright disappeared under an exhaustion that felt as endless as immortality. 

The Soldier stepped over the still body of his former handler and walked silently down the hall towards the room he knew was waiting for him like a bad dream. Part of him wanted to run from what he knew was waiting for him, but his impulsiveness had already cost him far too much. 

He wondered what would be left of him after Stregobor was finished scraping away the pieces of his mind.

Silent now, the Soldier went to the large stone table at the center of the room. His eyes carefully did not linger on the drain at the center of the room--stained dark brown with rust and ruin--or the trays of instruments carefully laid out on an innocuous-looking table nearby. Stregobor and the doctor followed like shadows at his heels and watched him sit on the edge of the table, mind racing with the effort to  _ remember _ the fragment of thought that had seemed so important a moment ago.

He could see the doctor and what was left of the guards watching anxiously in the background--obviously worried that the Soldier’s insubordination might mean punishment for them too. It took effort to keep the disgusted curl of disdain in his gut from showing on his expression. The humans were weak, foolish. They deserved every bit of pain he’d wrought.

Something deep within him was screaming at him to cling to the sensations he’d felt at the sight of the white-haired warrior.

“That man on the bridge…” the Soldier murmured, not looking at the cold eyes of the mage in front of him, “who was he?”

His fingers spasmed at his side like he wanted to cling tightly to something just out of reach. His skin shivered in an icy wind that did not belong in this underground room, far away from the sun and living things.

Stregobor’s lips pursed in a rare show of irritation. “He’s no one--an old soldier that you trained with once.”

The Soldier was silent, trying to find the words to describe the visceral reaction of his body at the sight of the other man. The  _ Witcher _ . It was nothing like the bitter anger that lived in his chest each time he worked with a trainer or handler. The reminder of the holes in his memory, in his soul, left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He looked back at Stregobor, trying to avoid the note of pleading in his voice. “I knew him.”

The words were out before he could curb his reckless tongue.

The mage moved again and the Soldier tasted hatred on his tongue when he spoke in a calm voice, “Your work has been a gift to mankind. You helped shape the next century on the Continent. And I need you to do it one more time,” Stregobor said, voice smooth as the silk of his doublet. The Soldier watched him like a creature caught in a trap, “Society’s at a tipping point between order and chaos. The man you helped capture today is a threat to our hope of achieving peace.”

“But I knew him,” the Soldier repeated. The words felt weak against the tide of longing to see the yellow-eyed man again that threatened to drown him.

Stregobor sighed--looking every inch a father disappointed in his son. He stood and gestured to the doctor, “Prep him.”

The doctor hesitated. “He’s been without reinforcement for too long, sir. We cannot guarantee he will follow orders like this.”

“Then we’ll wipe him and start over.”

The Soldier laid back against the table, not resisting when the restraints went tight against his arms, legs, and chest. His chest rose and fell in stinging breaths, anticipating what would come next. He stared up at the ceiling and felt the roar of the wind in his ears, saw a hand outstretched and horror on a man’s face. He heard a painfully familiar voice scream his name.

And he couldn’t help but answer.

“Geralt,” he whispered softly, the name like a benediction in a place carved from nightmares. The doctor shoved a bit of leather between his teeth to keep him from biting through his tongue. 

He tried to sit up against the restraints, chasing the thought that felt like everything, felt like home--

Stregobor’s hands came down around his face and his body arched against the straps binding him as a scream ripped free from his chest. The world went white and then red in the wake of the power that eviscerated all thought, that shredded everything in him, bone and marrow. He felt magic eating away at the core of him like acid and poison and let his sounds of agony mix with the lingering fury in his chest.

Then there was nothing.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big oof. 
> 
> Only two more chapters to go! 
> 
> (Are you ready for the show down?)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a lot of internal monologuing and angst, but I promise the final showdown is coming.

Geralt was a man made of ash and regrets.

He felt like the burned husk of the man he’d once believed himself to be someone who could save others. Even when his sword had tasted the blood of his first victim, he’d learned the hard way that humanity would never be able to see past the scars and the sins he’d committed. 

Only Jaskier ever had.

Jaskier who had seen the worst parts of him. Jaskier who had helped stitch wounds and comb viscera and all manner of horror out of his soul as easily as he did his hair. A man who’d answered violence with understanding and kindness. A man who had dared to love him even when Geralt turned to another. Even when all others would have left.

And Geralt had failed him.

Stregobor would never have known of the bard’s existence if it weren’t for Jaskier’s dedication to clearing Geralt’s name. He had proudly proclaimed his allegiance from every bar and tavern on the Continent. There was little doubt that whatever horrors had been done to make Jaskier lose the humanity that was embedded into every fiber of his being were part of the mage’s revenge on the Witcher. Jaskier was painfully vulnerable compared to the vicious talent of Yennefer or the raw power of Ciri. After the mountain, no one even knew to look for him.

Geralt’s hands clenched hard enough to make his knuckles bleed white. Jaskier would have waited for him to come, he knew. The bard had always been too loyal for his own good. 

How long had it taken before that hope died? How long before Stregobor took that from him?

Around him, the sounds of the prison wagon they’d thrown him into wasn’t enough to drown out the sound of his own grief. Whatever creature Stregobor had created remembered none of his life before he was taken. Jaskier would never kill something without reason. Geralt thought of how Jaskier reacted to the villagers that sniffed and sneered at the Witcher’s presence. He’d barely managed to restrain the bard from stabbing one of the louder men in the group.

And yet, Jaskier had only stood blank faced and numb when Stregobor’s men dragged Geralt into the cart.

It was somehow worse than believing Jaskier was dead. At least dead, Jaskier was safe. He couldn’t be used like a pawn in the schemes of Geralt’s enemies. He could be remembered for the emotion in his eyes and the brave tremble in his voice when he told Geralt he loved him for the first and last time. Not as the dead eyed, broken creature on his knees beside his abuser.

There was a thump outside of the cart and Geralt raised his eyes wearily to the barred window at the back. He could feel everyone of his years dragging him down until he felt like he was being pulled under by them. His heartbeat felt slower, dulled by the failure that made him want to scream and rage at the world. At himself.

Because at the end of the day, it wasn’t Stregobor who had failed Jaskier--it was Geralt.

Outside he could hear his guards murmuring to themselves before the cart was pulled to a stop. His chains clinked dully against the reinforced steel at the base of the cart and his skin itched with the need to yank them off. Part of him thought of planning some sort of escape, but it felt like a whisper compared to the rough echo of Jaskier’s voice in his ears.

_ Who the hell is Jaskier? _

Somewhere outside he heard the guards shuffle in surprise and their heartbeats spiked enough that Geralt raised his head to once again peer out the narrow window for some sign of what was happening. Nothing but evening shadows moved outside. He frowned, straining his senses for some sign of what was happening.

A scrape of metal against wood. Something turned in the outer lock of the cart and Geralt went stiff and wary, trying to prepare himself to face Stregobor’s men once more. Then he froze in surprise.

A familiar shaggy head popped into the opening and he caught a flash of white teeth before--

“Well now, Wolf. You seem to be having an exciting day.”

Geralt tried to stand but was drawn up short by the chains. “Eskel. What are you--”

“Never thought I’d say this to you, but there’s no time for talk now,” the other Witcher said as he levered himself into the cart and reached for Geralt’s cuffs. He was wearing one of the dark uniforms of the city guards and tugged off the ill-fitting helmet with a grunt. “That thing was squeezing my brain.” Within seconds, the heavy metal was sliding onto the floor and Geralt was being pushed out of the cart. “Yennefer said she could give us a few minutes, but we can’t guarantee that more guards won’t arrive.”

“Yennefer is here?” 

Eskel tossed him a heavy bundle that experience told him was the weapons the soldiers had taken from him. He buckled on his swords by relying on muscle memory in the near darkness and tried not to think about the conversation he knew was coming. Yennefer would want to know why Geralt had fallen so easily to Stregobor’s guards. The only reason she would come to Novigrad without Ciri and so soon after she’d been injured was if something had happened to make it worth the risk.

The two Witchers lifted the bodies of the unconscious guards into the cart and patted the stout draft horse to urge it into motion once more. He was sure the animal would return to its stable eventually, but it might give them a little more time to prepare before Stregobor’s men went on the hunt. As soon as it was out of sight, they jogged down the road with Eskel leading. 

It was familiar to trust the older Witcher to lead him to safety. Eskel had always had a soft spot for the quiet, grieving boy who’d slowly become hardened by the Witcher lifestyle. He’d made a point to teach Geralt the things that usually only came with time and scars. He didn’t pressure Geralt to speak then and he allowed Geralt to keep his silence now as they darted through the empty streets towards whatever safe house Eskel and Yennefer had procured.

“Here.” Eskel gestured to what looked like a storage warehouse for one of the local merchants. 

Numbly, Geralt walked inside without a word. Eskel moved past him to unlock the main door and slip into the massive storeroom. Inside was row after row of large crates that filled the air with a dizzying mixture of spices and leather and alchemy mixtures. And there, barely illuminated by two lanterns set atop a simple wooden table, was Yennefer.

She looked up at the sound of their approach and took stock of their lack of injuries with a single look. “What happened?”

Brisk and to the point, that was Yennefer. 

The problem was, Geralt wasn’t sure how to respond to her question. His throat felt choked with the memory of Jaskier’s blue eyes glaring up at him a moment before they went blank and emotionless. He looked down at the ground, fighting through the tightness in his chest and the wild energy burning beneath his skin.

“Stregobor’s men have infiltrated the city guard. He used them to ambush Geralt on the bridge--had a cart to transport him and everything,” Eskel offered after an awkward pause.

“He wants Ciri,” Yennefer guessed with a gimlet stare, “That’s the only reason he’d risk exposing his position to take Geralt prisoner. Nothing else would be worth painting a target on his back.”

“Cirilla? The Cintran Princess?” Eskel asked with a frown. “Cintra has fallen, there’s nothing of value there.”

“She’s much more than a princess. She carries an ancient magic--more powerful than I’ve ever seen.” Yennefer looked frustrated. She didn’t like the reminder that people hadn’t forgotten Ciri’s value even with Nilfgaard defeated. “Maybe he hoped taking Geralt would give him the leverage he needed to bargain for her. Perhaps he believed the rumors of our undying love for one another…”

Her wry expression faltered when she looked up at Geralt. He wasn’t sure what emotion he was showing--everything felt jagged and more erratic than he could control. 

“Geralt?”

“It’s Jaskier--” The words rushed out of him like poison, ripping away the fragile safety in the quiet of the warehouse. Once he started speaking, he could feel his panic and grief growing with every beat of his heart. “--He’s the Soldier.”

Yennefer gaped at him. “That’s impossible. He fell--”

_ “You don’t think I know that?”  _ Geralt roared, loudly enough that Eskel took a step back, but all he could do was stare at Yennefer like he was begging for her to prove him wrong, to prove that this was all some sort of hallucination. “I  _ saw _ him fall. I--I heard him hit the rocks. There was no way he could have survived.”

“We never found a body…” Yennefer whispered, looking horrified as her mind worked through this new information. 

Geralt felt like his whole body was vibrating with a frantic energy. He wanted  _ answers _ . He wanted to drag Stregobor out of his tower by his throat and shake him until he told them the truth. He could feel the control he’d always prided himself in fracturing further. His fingers opened and closed around the air, the movement uncontrollable against the tide of  _ findhimneedhimsavehim _ that consumed his mind.

“How could Stregobor turn your bardling into the Soldier?” Eskel asked, “I’ve heard rumors of the man killing dozens without difficulty. Jaskier didn’t have that sort of darkness in him when I met him.”

Geralt closed his eyes against the memory of the winter he’d spent with Jaskier at Kaer Morhen. Of the bard’s delight in discovering the other Witchers were more than willing to share their stories with him. Or how he always seemed to seek out Geralt in the midst of his revelry to smile fondly at him, a soft smile that was reserved only for Geralt.

He swallowed hard. “They did something to him. He--he didn’t recognize me.” Geralt thought of the way the other soldier had commanded Jaskier like a puppet. “He didn’t even know his name.”

“How could Jaskier be the Soldier?” Yennefer asked, “He moved faster than any human is capable of. Only Witchers are capable of such things. Maybe Stregobor cast some sort of illusion to make it seem like--”

“It was him.” Geralt didn’t have to close his eyes to imagine the way Jaskier had stared back at him. No one could manage to replicate the specific shade of blue of his eyes or the furrow in his brow that appeared when he was in deep thought. 

“Gods…” Eskel’s voice was soft, horrified at the implication. “What sort of magic could do that?”

Yennefer was still staring at Geralt like she was waiting for him to tell her he was lying about this. Slowly, she blinked and stared down at her hands for a long moment before she began to speak. “There are ways to carve away at a person’s mind. They...they are forbidden, of course. If people knew mages could destroy the very nature of a person, they would unite to kill us all.”

“How?” Geralt’s voice was little more than a hoarse plea.

She flinched a little at the raw emotion in his voice before she straightened her shoulders like she was marching into battle. “It was all theoretical. A theory that the mind could be molded into something new by wiping away the old. It was monstrous enough that all experimentation was halted by the Council. If Stregobor is dabbling in such things, he must be aware of the repercussions.”

“That wouldn’t be enough to stop him.”

“But why would he take the bard?” Eskel asked with a frown. 

“To hurt me.” The other Witcher and mage flinched at the flat tone of Geralt’s voice. He stared down at his hands again, trying to think past the shrill keening sound that kept echoing in his mind. Finally, he looked up at Yennefer. “Can you fix it?”

“Geralt…” she hesitated and something in him snapped.

He stood, towering over her in a rare display of desperation. “ _Can you bring him back?_ You have to fix him! Jaskier would never do this! He--he-” Abruptly his anger seemed to leave him panting and painfully vulnerable in front of the two of them for a beat. Geralt swallowed hard, “-He didn’t even _know_ me.”

She looked from Geralt to Eskel and seemed to wilt. “Geralt--if Stregobor has broken Jaskier enough that he couldn’t recognize friend from foe, there might not be anything left of him to fix.”

Geralt stared at her, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. 

“If he has been murdering innocents under Stregobor’s orders, Jaskier might not want to be saved,” Eskel said quietly. “It might be kinder for him not to see the blood on his hands.”

He shook his head numbly. “The Soldier did that. Not Jaskier.”

“Stregobor made him the Soldier,” Yennefer said. “All that’s left of Jaskier has been buried beneath Stregobor’s assassin. And the Soldier...Geralt, he’s not the kind you save. He’s the kind you stop.”

Geralt stood and paced away from them. He refused to consider the idea that Jaskier was lost. Not when he’d just found him again. Not when he’d seen for himself everything the bard had lost when he’d chosen to save Geralt instead of himself.

“Tomorrow I am going to kill Stregobor,” Geralt stated in a voice that betrayed none of his inner turmoil. “If you are coming with me, I suggest gathering what you need tonight.”

He didn’t bother to wait for their response.

He had a mage to kill.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the final showdown. Prepare your hearts. It will not be kind.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really tricky to write a true mixture of the MCU scenes in a way that fit with the Witcher world. I hope it lives up to what you were hoping for when we started this journey.

The streets of Novigrad filled with the early dawn light and the first of the merchants and workers ready to start their day. Dark uniformed guards moved among them, eyes scanning for any trouble. If there were more than usual, no one said.

Even with extra guards patrolling the city entrances, there were ways to move around the city without drawing attention. If you were particularly clever. Or creative.

Thankfully, Yennefer was both.

She moved through the crowds confidently. Skulking in the shadows would only draw more attention to her movements and she smiled prettily at anyone who caught her eye. It helped that the more iconic elements of her visage were muddied beneath the flashy clothes of one of the prostitutes more common on the main thoroughfare. She even saw a few men and women dressed similarly walking nearby--eager to return home after a long night.

If she had the time, she might have joined them just to learn the juicy secrets of the town’s gentry and government, but her schedule for the day was tight. Geralt had only agreed to her plan begrudgingly and she knew his patience wouldn’t linger long. 

Yennefer ducked past a pair of guardsmen before coming onto the rough wooden boards of the docks. She could hear the sounds of several workers calling out orders and the grunt of manual labor. A few gave her curious looks when she walked past them, but she ignored it in favor of walking into one of the storehouses stationed along the bank. 

Inside was dim and smelled faintly of the straw used to pack the crates. She didn’t see any workers inside the building which made her job a little easier. With a soft sigh, she pulled at the power within her and released it on the wooden crates along the wall.

Ten minutes later, no one noticed a woman making her way away from the main walkway amidst the chaos of the burning warehouse district.

* * *

“It’s done,” Yennefer’s voice was crisp and clear through the talisman she’d handed each of them.

In any other moment, Geralt would have been grateful to have Yennefer working on his side to rescue Jaskier, but he was too anxious to do more than grunt in response. He hadn’t managed to more than meditate for a brief period in an attempt to prepare for the battle ahead of them. He knew if he slept he would only dream of Jaskier. He didn’t think he’d survive watching Jaskier fall again when he knew what had happened after. Eskel gave him a pat on his shoulder in silent comfort, but it did little to stop the frenetic energy under his skin. 

All he could think about was Jaskier. 

The way he’d taken every hit from Geralt without giving any indication of his pain--as though he’d already experienced so much that a blow from a Witcher didn’t register. He thought of the muzzle that had been clamped around his jaw, taking away the very thing Jaskier had valued most. His voice. The worst was the bleak hopelessness in his eyes, as if he’d learned better than to expect better.

Geralt paced around the room, checking and rechecking his weapons while Eskel waited for Yennefer’s signal. 

The plan was simple. Yennefer would set fire to the docks and attract the attention of the city guards so Stregobor’s men would move away from the mansion. Stregobor would know Geralt had escaped by now, so they’d made a point of burning only the buildings housing his merchandise. He could choose between losing a few extra guards and losing a fortune.

Next would come the assault and--if all went according to plan--the rescue of Jaskier before Stregobor had a chance to move him to a new location. Eskel and Geralt had spent the morning making certain the roads out of the city were impassable with a few well-placed packs of wolves and barghest lured in from the mountains. They would be a pain to deal with later and Vesemir would give them hell for it, but Stregobor wouldn’t be sneaking Jaskier out of the city easily. 

“Thirty minutes,” Yennefer called from the talisman she’d charmed that morning. Both Witchers carried the simple glass bead on a leather thong around their necks to ensure they could communicate even after splitting up.

Three people against an army meant there was little chance of avoiding a dark end to this day.

Geralt could only hope that Stregobor’s was among the blood he would spill today.

With a nod, Eskel and Geralt left the relative safety of the small shack they’d used to stake out the manor and began their approach as the late afternoon sun began to cast long shadows along the ground. They used the shadows to their advantage as they moved through the trees at the edge of the manor property and surveyed the guards. Eskel disappeared briefly and returned with a grim expression.

“I count fifteen on the eastern side.”

Geralt pursed his lips, contemplating their next move. “There’s twenty on this side. No telling how many are inside and in the lower levels.”

Eskel grunted, the scar on the side of his face twisting with the movement. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Geralt said quietly, not looking at the other Witcher. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to move on.”

“Fuck you, Wolf,” Eskel growled, “I kill thirty humans before breakfast every day.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Geralt’s lips but he nodded seriously, “A slow start then.”

Eskel punched him in the shoulder for the snarky comment and spoke into the charmed necklace, “Are you in position yet, mage?”

“I’m always in position, old man,” Yenn said briskly, her voice a little rushed as though she were running. “Tell me when you’re ready for the fireworks.”

At that, both Witchers glanced over at each other for a brief moment before moving in seperate directions. There was no time for goodbyes or words of encouragement. They knew the tasks set before them. 

With only three members of their team against the dozens of Stregobor’s men, the best they could hope for was using surprise and confusion to their benefit. The mage knew Geralt would come for Jaskier--the only question was when. It explained why the grounds were still full of guards even as dark smoke rose above the city from Yennefer’s magic. A few shouted and rushed in the direction of the docks and Geralt paused in the shadow of a large topiary to watch them leave. If he could avoid killing off the city guard and gaining more enemies he would.

Once the sound of their footsteps died down, Geralt unsheathed two of the long daggers he kept for use in close quartered fighting and continued toward the house. Yennefer and Eskel would do all they could to draw the guards to the front gates of the manor so Geralt would have the time he needed to locate Jaskier. The size of the mansion was daunting, but Geralt was sure he would be able to scent the bard even after so long in Stregobor’s care.

A man walked out the servant’s entrance ahead of him and Geralt leapt on him before he could do more than widen his eyes in surprise. He dropped the body into the flower bed nearby and slipped into the corridor leading to the kitchens. Servants were busy preparing the evening meal and he avoided the crowds in favor of moving down into the depths of the mansion. Their chances of success increased with every moment they avoided detection.

He killed two more guards on his journey into the bowels of Stregobor’s keep, following the scent of misery and pain. By the time he reached the cells, his control was beginning to falter. It was clear that each of the rooms were intended for nothing but torture and the slow destruction of every ounce of humanity locked within. He scented blood along the hallway and comforted himself with the thought that perhaps Jaskier wasn’t so lost to Stregobor’s magic that he went into the dark willingly.

Then he found the room with the stone table at its center.

For a moment, his mind went completely still, unwilling to interpret what his senses told him. He looked at the worn leather straps hanging limply at its side. Long, thin grooves were dug into the sides of the table and it wasn’t until he found the jagged remains of a fingernail that he realized what they were--scratches. Claw marks left behind by a desperate man in so much pain that the tearing of his own flesh was insignificant against the agony in his mind.

Chains hung from the walls with reinforced bolts that were well worn from hours of fighting against them. Geralt walked closer to the heavy iron links and ran his fingers gently over them. He closed his eyes and took in a lungful of air and the scent of a man he’d mourned. Meadow grass and sunlight still lingered far beneath the sharp, acrid smell of blood and pain, growing fainter with each passing day. His fingers spasmed against the cool stone with the desire to somehow pull the essence of the bard away from this place of horrors.

Jaskier belonged in the sunlight and on the dusty roads at Roach’s side. His home was in crowded taverns with the laughter of strangers highlighting the joy in his song. He needed no ties to hold him back from the wandering soul in his chest or the daring heart that left a piece of itself with each of the people he chose to love. Jaskier was mischievous smiles that bullied past a grumpy companion’s solemn words and burrowed into the core of him. He belonged to the life he’d built with every tavern song and adventure he’d sought.

Most of all, he belonged with Geralt.

All those years of traveling together had changed Geralt forever. He could never go back to the silence of the Path without craving the light and laughter of Jaskier’s presence. Even when the bard had been driving him mad, there was a part of Geralt that craved the reminder of what it was like to be treated as a human again. Like he was important to Jaskier. Like he was trusted. Jaskier had taken one look at the brooding warrior sitting alone at the tavern and had never doubted the decision to put his life and his hopes in Geralt’s hands. He’d raced towards adventure with reckless abandon because he trusted Geralt to keep him safe.

It was a thought the Witcher had been careful to avoid in the year since Jaskier fell. For all he had wanted the future Yennefer might have given him, it was Jaskier who his heart truly relied on. 

He could survive Yennefer leaving him--Jaskier’s death had destroyed a vital part of him. 

Now that he had the chance to reclaim that happiness, he had no intention of letting it slip away from him again. He would give Jaskier his freedom and spend the rest of his long life protecting it.

The sound of footsteps hurrying down the corridor distracted him from his thoughts and Geralt stepped away from the chains to look out the door. A small man hurried away from him, ducking out of sight with a pile of paperwork in his hands. Geralt cursed and reached for Yenn’s charm around his neck.

“Any sign of Stregobor or Jaskier?” 

There was a pause before Eskel grunted, “Not on my end. I think we’ve lost the element of surprise though.”    
  


Geralt heard the sound of a man’s cry of agony come through before the charm’s magic cut it off and he sighed. Searching the house would be infinitely more difficult if Stregobor knew they were there. He considered the problem of flushing out Jaskier and Stregobor for a moment before a wild thought occurred to him.

“Yenn,” he said into the charm, voice even despite the effort of running down the hallway in the direction of the servant’s stairs, “I need you to draw their attention to the front of the manor.”

In response, there was a massive explosion outside, big enough to make the ground rumble beneath his feet. Almost immediately he could hear the shouts of alarm and heavy footsteps rushing outside like ants in a kicked mound. Two raced down the hallway toward him and he downed one with a quick knife throw and gutted the other while he was still gaping at his partner’s twitching corpse.

At the first window with a view of the front lawn, he dared to scan the area outside for any sign of the Soldier and frowned at his continued absence. Any hope of getting Jaskier away from Stregobor’s influence was clearly a lost cause. The mage must be keeping his Soldier close in preparation for Geralt’s arrival. A final bit of salt in the wound left behind by the loss of Jaskier.

Gods, he wished he’d just killed Stregobor when Renfri’s blood was still staining his hands.

Geralt raced up the stairs of the manor, clearing the next floor with prejudice. He needed to move as quickly as possible, but he didn’t want to force Eskel and Yennefer to face all of Stregobor’s men on their own. A soldier rushed him from a spare room and Geralt snapped his leg out in a kick that sent the man screaming out a window to land with a wet thud on the ground below. Another joined him with the help of a quickly signed Aard.

“Any sign of Jaskier?” Yenn asked through the charm, no sign of strain in her voice. If Geralt couldn’t see the smoke and devastation from the window, he’d think she was just walking down the street window shopping.

“He’s not on the first two floors. Stregobor must have him with him.”

A pause. “Stregobor isn’t going to let you take him without a fight.”

Geralt grunted and ducked behind a marble column to avoid a spell cast by a sweating and pale young mage standing at the top of the grand staircase. He took a moment to consider his next move while the man struggled to get a clear shot at him. 

“That’s why you’re going to bring down the manor when I give the signal,” he said and rushed out of his hiding spot.

Yennefer’s shocked sound was muffled by the sound of the next spell ricocheting off his Quen shield. Geralt grunted with effort when the next attack clipped him, but didn’t slow his sprint up the stairs. He cast Igni towards the man’s face, forcing him to stumble back to avoid burning his face. Geralt didn’t give him a chance to recover, just sent him rolling down the stairs in two pieces.

“If I can’t kill Stegobor myself, then we need to force him to choose between taking Jaskier and saving himself,” Geralt explained quickly. “That’s why you’re going to bring the building down.”

“What about you?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’m going to get Jaskier.”

“And if he doesn’t remember you?” Eskel asked.

“Then I’ll make sure Stregobor won’t be able to hurt him again.”

Geralt raced up the last of the stairs and threw open the door to the massive ballroom at the top. Then he froze, sword falling limply to his side.

Across the empty opulence of the ballroom, Stregobor lounged on a massive carved wooden throne. He looked over at the sound of Geralt’s entrance, but didn’t call out for his guards or any of the dozens of soldiers he’d hired to protect his manor. Geralt took a cautious step inside, eyes scanning for any sign of a trap. The tables and chairs that would have filled the room were pushed to one side and a wall of windows made the honey gold of the wooden floors gleam.

“Stregobor,” Geralt said, tightening his hand around his weapon.

“Geralt of Rivia,” Stregobor greeted with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “my how you’ve changed.”

Geralt stared at the man who’d been the cause of so much pain in his life and felt it disappear beneath the need to keep Jaskier away from this monster. He didn’t respond to the false cheer of the mage--they both knew neither of them would be satisfied until the other was dead.

“Ah, but I suppose you haven’t come to talk about the past, have you?” he murmured, watching the Witcher’s approach. “You’re here for him.”

A man stepped out in front of Stregobor and Geralt felt something inside him break.

They’d taken the muzzle off. 

Somehow it was worse to see Jaskier’s exposed face with none of its usual expressions lighting his blue eyes and features. His hair was wet like someone had doused him with a bucket in an attempt to wash away the blood and dirt from their earlier fight. Geralt could smell faint hints of blood marring the sweeter scent of Jaskier lurking beneath. It was the only evidence of the fight that had nearly killed them both the day before.

He stared at Geralt like he was a stranger, watching him not for his face, but for any movement that would indicate an attack. There was a wildness in his eyes that felt unnatural--like he expected an attack from any angle. Beneath the heavy leather armor, Geralt could hear his human heart pounding erratically. Every Witcher knew the sound of injured prey and a vicious anger burned in him at the thought of what had caused it.

He could smell the taint of dark magic even at this distance. Stregobor continued to lounge at his makeshift throne as indolently as any housecat. Whatever he’d done to Jaskier in the hours since Geralt had last seen him had cemented his belief that the former bard was fully in his control. 

“Impressive, isn’t he?” Stregobor said, distracting Geralt from the raw agony of staring into Jaskier’s eyes and seeing nothing but emptiness, “I must admit being a little surprised at how well he took to his training considering how stubborn he was when we found him.”

“Release him and I’ll let you live,” Geralt bit out.

Jaskier watched him without moving. Without blinking. His eyes were dull and empty, lost without the fire that usually made them bright and dancing. There was no sign that he cared at all about what the two were discussing. Like he was used to being treated as an object.

Stregobor laughed. “Surely you don’t actually believe you can save him?” He stood and walked until he was standing just behind Jaskier. “You should know better than to get attached to mortals...They are so flimsy after all.” 

Geralt watched him run his fingers over Jaskier’s cheek and watched the bard barely control a shudder, looking like a horse that had been run too hard and too long. “This is between you and me--he isn’t a part of this,” he said, trying to keep his panic at bay when every moment Jaskier willingly let Stregobor touch him like a prized pet made him want to scream.

“Your little bardling is as dead as Renfri, I’m afraid,” Stregobor sighed with his hand still on Jaskier's cheek, “He did try his hardest to wait for you, but a human can only withstand so much.”

The Witcher felt his mind go blank and still as the world before a storm. His ears strained to listen to the faint shift in his heart rate that would indicate a lie. It continued on, painfully calm despite the way his words were carving long lines of agony into Geralt’s ribs.

“I was quite pleased when the Reavers brought him to me after the failure of their dragon hunt. They thought I’d pay for the pleasure of getting to return something of yours piece by piece, but even I didn’t anticipate what a joy it would be to break apart your little bard.”

“What did you do to him?”

Stregobor smiled, but kept himself safely behind Jaskier’s unmoving form. “I remade him.”

The words echoed around the room as powerfully as any spell.

“He is the perfect asset. The perfect weapon,” Stregobor bragged like a proud parent, “I’ll admit I drew some inspiration from you Witchers. After all, I knew I’d use him to destroy you one day.”

Geralt shifted his attention to where Jaskier was watching him with a blank expression. “Jaskier, I know you’re in there still. You know me. You--”

Stregobor’s laughter was cruel. “I’ve told you, Witcher, your bard is dead. Just as you will be soon enough.” 

He turned his attention to Jaskier and snapped his fingers imperiously. “Soldier!” Jaskier flinched like he’d been struck and tilted his head to watch the mage as he spoke. “Your new mission is to kill the Witcher.”

Instantly, the Soldier returned his attention back to Geralt with violent focus. He reached up in a casual motion and pulled his sword free from its sheath on his back. The sound of it seemed to fill the room like the slow chime of a death knell. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said softly, refusing to reach for his own weapons.

There was no reply, just the soundless tread of the assassin as he began to close the distance between them. There was no hesitation in his expression, just clinical focus.

“Please don’t make me do this,” Geralt pleaded with him.

Jaskier didn’t respond, just continued to walk towards him.

Geralt took a breath and damned himself to hell for what would come next. Then he slung the dagger in his right hand at Jaskier and rushed to close the distance between them. His only hope was killing Stregbor and hoping that would be enough to break whatever control he had over the bard. It was the only hope for both of them walking away from this nightmare.

Jaskier met him halfway, hurling himself forward without any concern for his own safety. He darted under Geralt’s guard and slammed his hand into Geralt’s sternum, forcing the air to leave his lungs in a rush. Geralt grunted and brought his elbow down on Jaskier’s back to force the man to roll away. 

A booted foot swept low and Geralt fell to his back with a grunt of pain. Instinctively, he rolled to the side and barely missed the blade that sank into the wood where his head once was. Jaskier abandoned the knife without hesitation and kicked at Geralt’s side, aiming for his ribs. Geralt brought his forearms up to block the next blow and managed to get back to his feet in time to dodge a flurry of blows aimed at his face. Clearly, Jaskier had no intention of allowing him any space to use his size and strength to his advantage. 

He shoved Jaskier back with a quick kick to his stomach that sent the smaller man stumbling back with a short huff of air. Geralt brought his sword up in a defensive swipe that was meant to keep Jaskier moving backwards and away from Stregobor. Their swords met in a flurry of bright sparks and the shriek of metal. 

Jaskier seemed to intuite each of Geralt’s movements before he even completed the attack or parry. He was blazing fast--moving without care of how he was injured so long as he landed a hit on Geralt. Within moments, blood was trickling free from a dozen cuts and Geralt was beginning to feel frantic with the amount of effort it took to fight without seriously injuring the bard. Jaskier had no such resolutions and moved in with every intent of crippling the Witcher.

Worse was the growing realization that Jaskier wouldn’t stop until Geralt was dead.

In the corner of his eye, he could see Stregobor watching their fight with manic glee. It was clear that Geralt’s affection for the bard had been more than he hoped for and now he was waiting to see the results with eager anticipation. After all, he knew the Witcher would be hurt far worse than anything he could do if he killed Jaskier. Geralt grunted and dodged a brutal haymaker, pulling his sword free in time to block Jaskier’s knife.

“Now, Yenn,” he panted into the charm.

There was a pause filled with Geralt feverishly trying to avoid being skewered by Jaskier’s next attack before the ground rumbled and the building around them began to shake. The tower around them seemed to scream like an injured animal as the ceiling caved in to their left and the glass of the window blew out in a concussive wave.

“What was--” Stregobor stood, turning narrowed eyes at the window like he could see the mage lukring outside.

It was the last thing he ever did.

Abandoning his defense against Jaskier, Geralt hurled his sword like a makeshift javelin into the back of Stregobor’s head. It hit with a sickening crunch. Stregobor swayed for an instance before falling to the floor, a slick pool of blood already forming around the body.

Jaskier hesitated at the unexpected attack, staring over at the mage who had tortured him for so long. 

Geralt held his hands out in a placating gesture. “Please, Jaskier,” he said, “you  _ know _ me.”

Blue eyes darted back and forth between the Witcher and the body on the floor, body tensed. His fingers shifted around the blade in his hand, clenching and relaxing over and over again. Another rumble made him tense and look around at the building as it collapsed around them. He took a breath then focused on Geralt.

“I’m not going to fight you,” Geralt said and tossed the last of his weapons to the ground, leaving himself vulnerable.

The gesture seemed to infuriate Jaskier. He snarled like a wild creature and burst into motion, his knife moving like an extension of himself.

Geralt was forced to block the swing awkwardly with a forearm and twist so the momentum pulled Jaskier off his feet. Jaskier shifted his grip in order to slam the hilt of the blade into Geralt’s side and he felt a rib snap under the pressure. He cursed, catching Jaskier’s wrists with his own and let himself fall to the ground, each of them struggling to keep the upper hand.

The ground around them shifted and he leapt backward to avoid being crushed beneath the weight of part of the ceiling. Smoke and dirt from the rubble filled the air around him until he could barely see anything more than a few feet away. Flames from Yennefer’s magic licked hungrily up the edges of the wooden walls and ate away at the decorative paintings. He coughed into his shirt, turning to look for Jaskier with his heart in his throat.

“Jaskier!”

“Geralt,” Yennefer’s voice sounded like it was far away, “Geralt, you need to get out of the building. It won’t hold much longer.”

A scream echoed around the ballroom and Geralt whipped around, searching through the darkness for Jaskier. Yennefer continued to call for him through the charm, but he ignored her. He wasn’t going to leave Jaskier again. Part of the floor had already begun to collapse and he limped closer, one arm pressed over the wound in his shoulder.

Beneath part of the elaborate molding, Jaskier twitched and fought to pull himself free from the piece pinning him to the ground. He watched Geralt’s approach with the hunted eyes of an animal caught in a trap, clearly expecting another attack. His hands scrabbled for a weapon only to come up empty. Geralt reached out for a grip on the wood, ignoring the heat crackling around him, and heaved with all his strength.

It shifted slowly and he felt Jaskier wiggling and pulling himself slowly free until he could scramble to his feet. Geralt let the wooden beam fall to the ground and stumbled, drunk with blood loss and exhaustion. He turned to look at Jaskier in time to see the bard launch himself into him once more. 

His body hit the ground with a bone jarring thud and crunch of broken glass from the window. Ash-thick wind stung his eyes and he fought weakly as Jaskier straddled his hips and snarled down at him, “Who are you to me?”

“I’m your friend,” Geralt started, but was cut off by a vicious right hook to his jaw that sent stars dancing across his vision.

“ _ Liar _ !” Jaskier roared, “You’re my mission!”

Geralt grunted as Jaskier lifted him by the collar of his shirt to snarl down at him. He could feel his vision beginning to blur and he focused on Jaskier through sheer force of will, trying to choose his words with care.

“We traveled together,” he panted, “You...you wanted to have an adventure and write songs about Witchers.”

Jaskier slammed him back against the ground, eyes flashing. “You’re my enemy!”

“I loved you!”

The bard froze, panting and wild over Geralt. They stared at one another for a heartbeat that was interrupted by the roar of the building collapsing.

Then the world fell apart. 

Geralt had enough time to reach out and wrap his body around Jaskier’s as they fell, praying to the gods that he no longer believed in that the bard would survive this.

* * *

He came awake slowly, tasting ash and blood in his mouth. He shifted, testing each of his limbs for any injuries that would prevent him from completing his mission. The pain was manageable and, without a handler, the best he could hope for.

All around him what was left of the tower where the mage and the doctor had housed him. He slowly sat up, listening hard for any sound of anyone else nearby. A hand, familiar even beneath its armor, was still curled around his middle and he felt something deep in the pit of his stomach grow warm at the sight of it. There was a heartbeat pounding sluggishly in the rubble to his left and he found himself slowly getting to his feet and surveying the destruction around him, one hand pressed against the ache in his ribs. 

The Witcher and his allies had nearly leveled the manor. Only two of the towers on the outer edge of the property remained precariously upright. Smoke from countless fires stung at his eyes and he blinked away the sting. There was dampness on his cheeks and he wiped it away, staring at the moisture left on his fingertips.

Something deep within him felt unsettled. There was something he was forgetting. Something important.

He looked back at the body of the man he'd been told to kill. 

_ I loved you! _

His head was throbbing. Jagged pieces of memory flashed behind his eyelids with every blink. Bright eyes, glancing over at him in fond annoyance. A brown mare, her side warm against him as he walked and she pretended not to notice him leaning against her. A voice, screaming his name as 

he

fell

The Soldier jerked, shaking his head hard against the sensation of wind and pain. He pressed his palms against his eyes until red spots filled his vision.

He was a weapon. An asset. Assets were only good as long as they were useful.

The Soldier forced himself to focus on the man he was ordered to kill. There was a growing pool of dark liquid trickling down the side of a fractured piece of what was left of the balcony. It had entered the Witcher’s side just under his ribcage and pinned him to the ground like a bug. The man must have thrown himself over the Soldier as they’d fallen to try to protect him as strange as it seemed. He hummed, hands hovering just above the broad chest until he saw it rise and fall once more. The Witcher was alive, but even he wouldn’t survive for long without a healer.

As soon as the thought entered his head, he felt his hands spasm at his sides and his heart begin to pound. He shook his head, trying to control his body’s reactions. These strange reactions had only increased since his fight with the Witcher. It made him feel...off balance. Like there was something he was forgetting.

Something about this Witcher was important. Important enough that the mage risked losing the Soldier to kill him. It made him wonder--something that he’d never been allowed to do under the watchful eyes of his handlers. Just the thought of what sort of punishments he would be given if he didn’t kill the Witcher now made him shiver.

And yet…

He didn’t reach for the knives still strapped to his side.

The thought of harming him made something deep in his mind  _ writhe _ . It made it easier to push aside the rubble covering the Witcher’s face and check him over for any other injuries. That broken creature in the back of his mind quieted when he realized that the wounds wouldn’t be enough to kill him. He would survive this. Sharp features were softened with unconsciousness were streaked with blood, dirt, and the bruises left behind by his own hands. The Soldier was surprised by the hot spike of guilt at the reminder.

_ You’re my friend. _

He trailed his fingers over the Witcher’s jaw and down to where the wooden fragment was protruding from his stomach, torn between the desire to flee and the need to help this man who’d been so sure he knew him. The Witcher frowned slightly, eyes shifting behind closed eyelids as he struggled to come awake.

“Jaskier…” he breathed.

The Soldier stared at him, entranced by the sound of the name on his lips. 

It echoed in his mind like some familiar lullaby from his childhood. A reality that was impossible to believe. He was a creature born in the darkness of the cells and fed on the blood and pain of his enemies. The fascination he felt for the man in front of him could not belong to Stregobor’s Soldier.

His heart thumped erratically in his chest and he looked around, worried at what would happen if someone were to discover his weakness. Hesitation was always punished.

“Geralt!” An unfamiliar voice called from behind him and the Soldier turned, pulling a blade free in a smooth movement. He crouched over the fallen Witcher, unsure if he should finish the job he’d started or if he should protect him from these unknown threats.

At the edge of the clearing created by the rubble of the destroyed manor, someone was stumbling through the dust and smoke. He recognized the shape of the female mage he’d been sent to kill and another broad shouldered man. The Witcher shifted again, clearly beginning to wake with the help of his enhanced healing. It wouldn’t be long before he awoke and found the Soldier still here, waiting for orders he no longer had.

He needed to leave.

And yet, here he was. Risking his freedom to ensure that the Witcher would survive the wounds caused by his own hands. He hummed a soft tune, the words rough, but familiar on his tongue,

“ _ The call of the White Wolf is loudest at the dawn _ ,” he looked down at the Witcher and watched his eyebrows furrow at the sound of the words that dripped from his lips in raspy whispers, “ _ The call of a stone heart is broken and alone _ .”

The Soldier hummed the tune softly under his breath, blue eyes sharp on the figures coming closer. They called for Geralt once more and he knew his time here was coming to an end. 

He couldn’t let them take him. He couldn’t be someone’s pet again. 

But something in him didn’t want to risk leaving the Witcher unprotected and injured here. It felt familiar, worrying for him, so he waited. His fingers brushed over the callouses left behind by years of sword fighting and revelled in the strange peace he felt near the Witcher. 

“ _ For the song of the White Wolf will always be sung alone, _ ” he whispered. The words were familiar as was the pang of longing in his soul.

“Jas…” 

The Soldier looked down and froze when bright golden eyes were staring up at him. They were fuzzy with pain and confusion, but he could feel the strength lurking within the Witcher when his hand tightened around the Soldier’s. It made him want to jerk himself free, but he resisted, frozen by the raw hope in the warrior’s eyes. He stared down at him, drawn by something he couldn’t name and--

“Geralt!”

The Soldier jerked and turned in time to see the female mage and another Witcher begin running in their direction. He got to his feet, pulling a knife free and beginning to back away. A hand closed around his ankle.

“Don’t, Jas,” the Witcher said softly, “Please.”

The mage was getting closer and the Soldier could feel her magic beginning to bloom around them. It brought back memories of pain and Stregobor’s voice whispering cruel promises in his ears. His breath came out in a ragged pant and he shook his head, taking a step back. 

Then another.

Ignoring the Witcher’s gasping sounds of protest and the shouts of alarm from the others, the Soldier turned and ran for the treeline, disappearing in their shadows.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, the end of Winter Soldier is gut wrenching if you were hoping for a reunion. Never fear, part two will not follow the Civil War timeline and we'll see these two boys together soon.
> 
> Until then, stay tuned and if you're feeling adventurous, go check out some of my other stories. :) Or come complain to me on tumblr if that's your thing. @geraskierficrecs.
> 
> Thanks for reading!! Stay tuned for more!

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! Your comments give me life!
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> If you need something to keep you busy between updates, come check out some of my other stories for more badass Jaskier and angsty whumps. You can also hang out with me on tumblr as @avoidingaverage or @geraskierficrecs.


End file.
